


damned guilty deeds to a sinners mind

by ghostofgatsby



Series: I'd kill for you. I'd die for you. I'd live for you. [17]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Death, Demons, Drowning, Fae & Fairies, Fae manipulation, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Multi, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Urban Magic Yogs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you’re looking for respite in the city, for a solution for something dark, there are too many options with a variety of consequences. Smith was looking for something more effective. If the nightmares were a prophecy, if he was destined to some horrible death, he wanted to avoid it at all costs.<br/>And if there’s anyone who can change your fate, it’s the Norn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the fic I've been working on off and on for five months. Hold on tight.  
> There are a lot of metaphors and symbols and foreshadowing things in this, some intentional and some not. I'd love to know your interpretations or if you made connections.
> 
> content warnings per chapter  
> chp 1 cws: nightmares, death, drowning, fae manipulation, car sex  
> in the nightmare: graphic violence, car crashes, dogs, dead bodies/zombies, falling, body horror, demons, claws, blood  
> The drive-in server _is_ of age.  
>  If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> spotify playlist, Guilt and Memory: https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5FJUeTPUSpi0EB1M9iPkMw  
> songs for this chapter:  
> Can’t Sleep, Can’t Breathe- Digital Daggers  
> Random Reality Shifts (Descension Bonus Track)- Coheed and Cambria
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/

Smith drives along a darkened road in the dead of night. The radio is going in and out. He’s trying to fix it, but his hands keep returning to the wheel.

The road twists and turns. It becomes increasingly difficult to drive quickly. He feels uneasy, like something is watching him from the shadows.

Smith checks behind himself in the rear-view mirror again. There’s nothing there. Nothing there that he can see, at least. He lulls himself into faux reassurance and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

That’s when the howling starts.

Dogs. And not just any old mutts either. Cwn Annwn: Spectral hounds. The Wild Hunt.

The kelpie speeds off as quick as he can, radio abandoned and giving off a steady stream of white static. But the car keeps stalling as he tries to swerve around corners. The howling is getting softer and softer, and he doesn’t dare to look around because it means the dogs are at his heels.

_Come on. COME ON._

He pounds the pedals and the car roars ahead, up the mountainside. A bridge comes into view. The only sound he hears is the car engine. Just as the tires touch the wrought steel of the bridge, the hounds slam into his car.

Teeth and claws gnash at the windscreen. Smith swerves, screaming, trying to throw them off the hood. He panics. The car crashes through the bridge guardrails and sails into the lake. Water envelops him but Smith is relieved that the dogs can’t get him here. Not in his turf. He wrenches his keys from the ignition and swims out of the sinking vehicle. Once upon the shore, he turns around.

The lake is not unlike where he was born, with white-capped mountains in the backdrop. But the water is what makes him cautious.

The surface is completely still. No waves, no ripples, nothing.

And yet Smith feels...a call, from the water. A desire to go to it.

It’s so like home, after all.

He walks forward step by step, unable to control himself despite every nerve in his body telling him to run; to turn around and don’t look back, it’s _unsafe._

The kelpie sinks into the water. Mud sticks to his bare feet. He wades in until the water is up to his chest and stops. The chill starts to seep into his bones. The water is much colder than he’s used to.

Something bumps against Smith’s ankle and he sidesteps, only to watch another something float to the surface beside him.

A body, bloated, green and slimy. He gives it a firm shove to move it away from him but another appears to take it’s place.

Dozens of bodies start bubbling up around him. Hands and legs knock into Smith as he becomes surrounded in people he has killed. He tries to move away towards the shore, but the hands turn malicious. They come to life and grab onto him with a vice-like grip. Their sharpened nails dig into his skin and Smith struggles. The hands pull wherever they can grab. He punches and kicks and flails, but it’s no use. He’s going down with them.

They drag him down, under the surface of the lake, down and down. It’s deeper than he first thought. There’s no sign of his car, but Smith isn’t sure he’d be able to spot it anyway, since everything is darkness and kelp.

The moonlight gets dimmer the closer he gets to the bottom of the lake. Smith keeps trying to pry their grip free or to fight back, but the zombies, whatever they are, don’t like that. They hold him closer, with slimy cold skin pressed to Smith’s. The hands morph into claws and they rake across his chest. They’re so sharp that they slice him open as if he was paper.

The wounds burn and bleed, and Smith cries out. It only spurs the creatures on. When Smith’s toes finally brush the bottom of the lakebed, they slash and claw at him in a frenzy. They leave cuts on his arms, shoulders, neck and chest. His blood wafts into the water, leaving a trail up to the surface.

He’s sure the surface must be there somewhere. He can’t see anything up in the inky blackness above him.

But the next thing Smith knows, he’s falling. Heat hits him all at once, overbearing and stealing the air from his lungs. The lake is gone, replaced with a blood-red sky and a blood-red canyon. A rocky canyon which he’s rapidly approaching with no way to stop. He’s falling and he’s going to hit the ground, and there’s nothing he can do to save himself.

Smith hits the side of the ravine halfway down and screams as he feels bones break and limbs twist the wrong way. He tumbles down to the bottom of the ravine where a pit of lava awaits him. The fiery liquid bubbles and hisses gleefully. The horizon flips and turns in his vision as he rolls hand-over-foot down the side of the canyon. Smith tumbles into the lava head first.

There are flames all over him, rising up his sides, his legs, engulfing him. He’s burning alive. His keys are melting in his hands, the metal dripping between his fingers. Even the skin on his hands starts to burn and peel away, showing bone underneath.

The kelpie’s eyes water from the pain. His limbs struggle in the lava to bring his head to the surface but somehow he manages. Blood runs down his face and the back of his neck. His face feels raw, especially his lips which are blistered and swollen. He coughs and smoke spews from his lungs.

Smith looks up in the sky. There’s a speck of blue that could be freedom, but the obsidian gates to hell swing shut. He’s trapped.

The claws return, but this time the bodies are demons. They cackle and push him back under, drowning him in the lava. His limbs are burning away. He’s suffocating. There’s a blinding pressure in his skull that only makes the laughter ringing in his ears worse. His body is burned to a crisp, and the broken limbs are twisted and contorted into bad angles. Blackness coats Smith’s vision like ink on a bloodstained canvas, and he passes out.  
  


* * *

  


It was the third dream Smith had this week.

And it was only Wednesday.

Each time he’d slept they’d gotten worse. But this was the first time he’d fallen into hell. It was the first time he’d dreamt he was drowning in lava with his skin flaking away.

Smith peels the sweat-soaked sheets off of himself. The time reads 3:36 am from the clock on the bedside table. Trott, Ross, and Sips are still fast asleep. They’re curled around one another, unperturbed.

Smith gets up and goes to the kitchen to help himself to some whiskey from the fridge. He sits down at the table to watch the pendulum in the wall clock swing back and forth. After the dream, there’s no use in trying to sleep again. The clock ticks and the fridge gurgles while he sips his drink until sunrise. He doesn’t drink enough to get drunk; his mind is too wrapped up in the things he’s seen.

“Morning, sunshine.” Trott yawns later on, walking into the kitchen. “You’re up early.” The sun is coming up through the windows, alighting Trott in an orange glow.

The kelpie smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bad dream.”

Trott frowns and raises an eyebrow at the whiskey on the table. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks slowly.

“No.”

“Okay.” Trott starts making tea, but not before taking the Jack Daniels bottle back to the fridge.

“Do you think...you could make me a dreamcatcher or something?” Smith asks, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It’s been the third night of these things and I can’t get much sleep.”

“I don’t see why not.” There’s a clinking sound as Trott places the teapot on the stovetop. He turns a dial and the burner alights with a whoosh of flame. “Dreamcatchers are easy to make. I have plenty of materials.”

Smith sighs and pushes his empty glass away from him. He places his face in his hands. “I just don’t understand why they’ve been so terrible all of a sudden.”

The bad dreams had arisen seemingly out of nowhere, and Smith was confused about why they kept happening. A week after he and Trott had...bonded, Sips' face had become less common to see when he drowned people.

Smith would never admit it out loud, but the bond they made had brought him comfort that he didn't expect. The bond failed to show any added benefits, magical or otherwise, so far. Other than making the two of them more affectionate lately, there was nothing new.

Trott said there could be developments later, but Smith didn’t mind either way. The bond had helped, magically or not. In the meantime, Trott had managed to track down who put the hit out on Sips, and that mess was settled with a delightful vengeance.

Things had mellowed out, for the time being. But then the nightmares started.

Trott takes a seat across from Smith. “It’s not often you have bad dreams, is it?” He asks, leaning back in the chair and observing Smith carefully.

Smith traces a watermarked ring on the table. “It’s not often I have dreams at all.”

Trott hums, thinks quietly for a while before speaking. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

The kelpie says nothing, stares hard at the light glinting off of the glass in front of him.

_I think my subconscious should shut the fuck up._  
  


* * *

  


Smith plays through all twenty five of the games on his phone about three times as he waits for Trott to get off work. The selkie had promised to start working on Smith’s dreamcatcher since he would be home a little earlier than usual. Smith had wanted to watch him make it, but he was finding the wait to be tiresome and droll. Sips was at work, too, meaning he had no one to pester besides Ross, who was watching tv. Old Warner Bros. cartoons were on, but Smith wasn’t paying much attention to them.

“I’m so _bored_.” Smith groans as he tosses his phone onto the coffee table, giving up. He burrows back into the couch and grumbles.

“Why don’t you go out, then?” Ross chuckles from where his sits cross-legged on the floor.

“I don’t know.” Smith mutters. “I’m starting to think I should avoid it.”

The gargoyle hums in surprise. “You? Not go out?”

“I know, a fucking shocker, that.” Smith rolls his eyes.

Ross turns to face him. “Why the random change?”

Smith shrugs and scratches at the meager beard on his face. “I can’t sleep lately. I don’t know if that’s the cause or not.”

“Could be, I suppose.” Ross gives a shrug and curls his tail around Smith’s ankle.

“I’m so _bored, Ross._ ” The kelpie whines, nudging at Ross’ shoulder with his other foot. “There’s nothing to do here.”

Ross laughs at him. “We could go do something, then.”

“Really?” Smith’s eyes brighten excitedly. “Do you want to? We could go somewhere.” He sits up from his slouch.

Ross smiles. “If you really want to get out, yeah.”

“Okay, sweet!” Smith leaps up and snatches up his phone from the coffee table.

Ross gets to his feet as well and starts pulling on the clothes he’d shucked beside him the minute Trott had left out the door. “Where do you want to go?” He asks, zipping up his hoodie.

Smith grins that white-bright smile of his. “I know just the place.”  
  


* * *

  


The drive-in is a weather-beaten carport, just off the highway heading east out of the city. The lights of the sign flicker as Smith pulls up to a menu board with upbeat pop music streaming from his car radio. They order two hot dogs, covered in tangy-sweet coney sauce, for each of them, and a side of crunchy breaded cauliflower, deep fried to golden perfection. Each comes in a paper-lined basket, and leaves behind a thin film of grease on their fingers.

Ross holds a frost-dusted mug of root beer in his hands. The smooth, root taste of the sarsaparilla rolls over his tongue as he drinks.

Smith is singing under his breath. His arm rests on the window ledge and he taps rhythms on the side of the car with his fingers.

The cool breeze blowing through the open windows ruffles their hair. It feels nice on Ross’ skin. It’s a welcoming feeling like the sun on his shoulders. Nothing at all like storms, or like harsh winds and torrential rain downpours. He always hates the rain because it reminds him of standing vigil during the nights on the roof of the church.

The gargoyle looks over and winds his tail around Smith’s waist. When the kelpie had burnt down his church, Ross wasn’t sure what the future held for him. He never expected the kind of life he lived today with Smith, Trott, and Sips.

Smith looks over at him and smiles.

Ross smiles back, certainly not complaining about the circumstances that led to this.

Smith chuckles. “You’ve got...” He reaches out and wipes a drop of sauce from the corner of Ross’ mouth with his thumb. “A bit of sauce there, mate.”

Ross licks his lips. “Did you get it all?” He asks, smirking.

Smith sucks the sauce from his thumb, eyes smiling with mirth. “I don’t know, I think I missed a spot.” He hums, and leans across the gear shift to kiss him.

The kelpie’s lips are warm when they press to Ross’ own. Ross curls his fingers into Smith’s shirt and pulls him closer. He sucks at Smith’s bottom lip and tugs gently at it with his teeth. Smith sighs and tentatively slips the tip of his tongue inside Ross’ mouth, but they both wrinkle their noses when the root beer Ross has been drinking mixes with the lemon-lime of Smith’s Mountain Dew.

They pull away, chuckling, and settle back in their seats again. The music on the radio is at a commercial break. Advertisements for brand new cars, luxurious vacations, and self-help anti-drug rehabilitation facilities grate over the sounds of the city.

Ross finishes off the rest of his root beer. He turns and opens his mouth to make a comment, but stops short.

Smith is staring across the drive-in, at a server in a yellow and orange uniform.

The server looks young, with tousled red hair and freckles. They seem cheerful, helping customers with orders and delivering meals in roller-skates. One of their co-workers skates over and says something hushed into their ear, and the server tilts their head back and laughs.

Smith has his eyes locked right on them, a predator sizing up prey. Lust, want, and desire are so clear in the depths of his gaze. His eyes caress their frame like a brand. He sears his thoughts through the magic he directs towards them. When the server shoos their friend away and turns around to deliver another meal, their eyes lock onto Smith's.

And Smith gives them that slow, easy grin, with charm reeling them in. They wouldn't feel the hook until it was far too late.

Smith crooks his finger, beckoning the server over. The server, blushing, complies.

"Can I help you, sir?" They ask with their skates scraping the pavement to stop at the driver’s side window.

"I was wondering if you might have an extra fork? I'm afraid I dropped mine under the car." The lie slips so easily through Smith’s teeth.

"Sure, um," The server pats down their apron until they find a plastic fork. “Here you go.” Their fingers touch Smith’s when they hand it to him.

"Thanks, doll." He smirks and they let out an embarrassed giggle.

The kelpie tosses the fork into Ross' lap before turning back to face the server. "What's your name?"

"Jamie. Can I get you anything else, sir?" They tuck a lock of their red hair behind their ear and twist one of the thin shoulder straps on their apron.

"Maybe later." Smith winks, still grinning brightly.

The server blushes and looks away. They pat down their apron again until they find a notebook and pen, and scratch down their number.

Smith tucks the paper in his pocket when Jamie hands it to him with a bashful grin. The server skates away, giving a cutesy glance over their shoulder at Smith. He smirks proudly and leans back in his seat. His hand picks up his drink again and he hums along with the radio like nothing happened.

Ross sighs heavily. He scowls down at the fork in his lap and throws it at the kelpie in retaliation.

Smith makes a surprised noise around the straw of his drink. “The fuck’s your problem?” He snaps back, chucking the fork out the window. It’s not like they needed it.

“Are they even of age, Smith?” Ross stares at his hands and feet. He feels awkward and out of place. “Is this really necessary? To charm them?”

Smith doesn’t reply.

Ross looks up. Smith’s eyes are on the server.

The gargoyle scowls again. “ _Smith._ ”

“Hmmm?” Smith hums around the straw.

“...Is it really necessary?”

“Is what?” The tone in his voice means he knows full well what Ross is talking about. As does the little smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Ross huffs aggravatedly and shakes his head. He turns away to watch the cars drive by.

_Does he even care if someone would miss them? If anyone misses the people who die. I look at them and I see a person marked for death. They have no idea what they’ve been coerced into, but..._

Ross looks back over at Smith. At the haze in his eyes, and his wind-tousled hair. He wants to run his fingers through it, press kisses to Smith’s jaw and make him forget about the server.

But he knows once the kelpie’s set his mark it’s useless.

_With a face like that, it’s understandable that they’re willing._

The gargoyle looks at his hands, where the speckled marble skin is rough and callused from climbing.

 _What are these hands for? They were claws once, and would scratch the sides of the church when I climbed. But what are these hands for, if not for climbing?_ Ross wonders. _They were built to keep something safe, by holding onto things._

Ross looks again from the server to Smith and back to his hands. _Lot of good these hands have done. What use are they if I no longer climb, and no longer keep my footing?_

_If my hands can’t do that, can’t protect those I love, then what are these hands for?_

He leans back in the seat of the car, and the leather smells like mud.

_I left the church and still I do nothing._

The sound of a straw sucking up air breaks Ross from his inner speculation.

Smith smacks his lips and throws the empty cup out the window with a clunk. “What do you say we get out of here, Ross?” The kelpie smiles at him and gestures to his empty mug. “Done with that?”

“Yeah.” He winces through a smile as Smith throws that out the window too. The smashing of glass is followed by someone shouting.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

Smith turns his keys in the ignition. The radio skips for a second when the car roars to life.

They peel out of the drive-in with what looks to be the manager running after them, and Ross can’t help but laugh. Smith just turns up the radio to drown out the shouting. He grins and revs the engine as they drive away.

The thumping baseline of the music settles over Ross’ shoulders. Smith keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. The gargoyle wraps his tail loosely around Smith’s forearm and beatboxes to back Smith’s singing.

The city is rather peaceful today, with the sun shining and a light breeze keeping the air at a hospitable temperature. No one was hurrying to get anywhere, and the sunshine tempted more to walk than to drive.

Smith has the windows in the car rolled down, letting the wind mess with his hair. It’s a good look for him, especially with sunglasses on. He pulls up to a parking garage with a view from downtown to the river. Not the best built place, nor the best looking, but it holds a soft spot in Ross’ heart nonetheless.

The kelpie turns to say something to Ross but can only take a breath.

The sunlight’s catching the glass horns on his head and the ridges along his tail, and once again Smith is taken aback.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” He says wholeheartedly.

If Ross could blush he would. They smile at each other and Smith unbuckles his seat belt to scoot towards him. He kisses Ross sweetly and Ross curls an arm around Smith’s waist to move him closer.

Smith runs his hands down Ross’ neck and chest, down around his hips. He splays a hand in the middle of Ross’ back and nips at his bottom lip as his kisses him.

The gargoyle kisses back harder. He pushes his fingers under the hem of Smith’s t-shirt, and feels Smith shudder when he traces the lower vertebrae of his spine.

This, he can be. If this is what Smith wants, Ross can be this for him.

And he wants to be. He wants to be what he can.

Though Ross admits he can’t help himself, he’s almost jealous sometimes when Smith comes home after a kill. Trott tends to avoid Smith, pushes him away, but Ross? Ross lets Smith revel in it. He lets Smith explore him. He wants every part of Smith, even the dark parts. Even the parts he shouldn’t let himself have.

And he knows Smith wants him, too. He can feel it, the care in the way Smith runs his hands over his chest in reverence. The way those mossy green eyes stare back at him.

Smith’s probably looking at him now, Ross realizes. He opens his eyes because they’ve stopped kissing, and sees Smith watching him.

The kelpie strokes Ross’ cheek and smiles. “What’re you thinking about that you get so lost in?”

Ross chuckles and kisses Smith’s fingers when they brush across his lips. “Just you.” He says lovingly. “Only you.”

The force of the resulting kiss is enough to knock the breath from him and leave him dizzy. Breath he doesn’t actually need, merely acquired, but the learned result is the same.

Smith kisses him passionately. They pant and pull each other closer in the confined space of the car. Ross drops his hand down to Smith’s jeans and skims his fingers against the strained fabric. Smith moans and cups Ross’ cheek when he pulls away.

Ross licks his lips. “Want me to suck you off?” He asks blatantly.

Smith grins, tongue between his teeth. “Hell yeah. Dirty fecker.” He strokes his thumb along Ross’ jaw before climbing into the back seat. Once he’s settled, head tipped back and legs splayed wide, he lets out a happy sigh. “Come over here, if you really want me that badly.” He teases.

The gargoyle grins and follows Smith’s lead. The carpet on the floor of the car is scratchy on his knees but he doesn’t mind. Not when he licks the bulge in Smith’s jeans and gets a strangled groan in response. He rubs his hands up and down Smith’s thighs and pulls down his zipper with his teeth.

“ _Fuck_ we trained you well.” Smith keens.

Ross laughs into Smith’s hip and hooks his fingers in his belt loops to tug the jeans down. The kelpie’s cock springs free, hard and hot. Ross sucks kisses from the base to the tip.

“ _Ross_.” Smith's fingers find themselves in Ross’ hair at the nape of his neck and tighten. Ross hums in pleasure and Smith echoes him.

The gargoyle licks his lips and meets Smith’s eyes before enveloping his cock with his mouth. He bobs his head along the shaft and licks along the underside, drawing moans and gasps from Smith panting in front of him.

“Fuck, Ross...” Smith mutters. His neck and face are flushed, lips parted, eyes closed. “So good.” His fingers tremble on Ross’ neck.

Ross pulls off of Smith almost all the way and sucks at the head. Smith tries to jerk upwards but Ross holds him still and digs his thumbs into his hips.

“Fucking shit yes.” Profanity drops from Smith’s mouth like a blessing. “Oh fuck, Ross.”

Ross licks over the slit before sinking down again, whimpering as Smith’s hands wring harder in his hair.

“Ross, fuck, I’m gonna-”

He digs his thumbs harder into Smith’s hips, sure to leave bruises, and gives one last hard suck before Smith comes. Smith moans and shivers through the aftershocks. The gargoyle swallows him down before pulling off completely.

Smith pants. His chest heaves with every breath as he comes back to himself.

Ross smirks when those mossy green eyes open again and meet his.

Smith looks down to where Ross' arousal has tented his shorts. "Let me help you with that." He suggests, catching his breath.

He zips himself back up and scoots forward on the seat. Ross unbuttons and unzips his shorts enough so that Smith's hand can get between his clothes and his skin.

The kelpie shifts closer, making the leather car seat squeak. Ross tips back his head and moans when Smith's hand curls around his hardened length and begins to stroke.

"So fucking hot." Smith whispers. His mouth presses tender kisses to Ross’ lips, cheeks and neck.

Ross whines and rolls with the slide of Smith's hand. He reaches up and fists the fabric of the kelpie's shirt.

"Smith." He murmurs. Smith kisses him again, like he did before. He slides the tip of a tongue into his mouth, and Ross sucks lightly in return.

Smith can taste himself on Ross’ tongue. It isn't the greatest taste but the fact that it's _his_ sends a shiver of arousal down his spine. Ross moans wetly when Smith speeds up the movement of his hand. Smith can’t help but smirk devilishly.

"Smith." The gargoyle's eyes are darkened in lust, lips wet from kissing. His hips jerk a little and his grip on Smith's shirt tightens. "'m close." He murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as Smith kisses him again.

"Come on, then, Ross. Come for me." Smith mutters against his lips.

Ross does, gasping Smith's name.  
  


* * *

  


“We’re home!” Smith enforces his greeting by slamming the door closed.

“Great, you can start dinner!” Trott yells over the back of the couch. “And must you _always_ fucking slam the door shut, Smith? For fucks _sake_!”

Ross shakes his head at Smith’s stifled giggles. He looks over at Trott and smiles. “I’ll start on dinner. What should I make?”

“I’ve put a casserole in the oven, so you just have to make some side dishes.” Trott says with a sigh. “Maybe some vegetables?”

“Sounds good.” The gargoyle gives Smith a smile and heads into the kitchen.

Smith bounds over the couch to plop down next to Trott.

“Whoa. That looks really cool.” He exclaims.

In Trott’s hands is the dreamcatcher Smith had asked for, a silver loop wrapped in dark emerald string. Bits of rocks and gems were wound into the pattern that stretched across it. They shined and shimmered in the lamp-light.

“Thanks. I’m almost done with it.” There’s a pile of unused embroidery string at Trott’s feet, and a tiny bag of materials at his hip. A piece of notebook paper rests on Trott’s leg. If Smith squints he can read the list, _Smith’s Dreamcatcher_ written across the top in Trott’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

Smith smiles and puts an arm across Trott’s shoulder. “You’re really good at stuff like this.” He nuzzles his nose into the selkie’s hair and kisses the side of his ear.

Trott chuckles. “Just takes practice is all.”

Smith watches as Trott winds the string in elaborate knots, criss-crossing over and over. Every few knots a bead or a stone or a gem is added. After every addition Smith brushes kisses against Trott’s ear.

“Smith.” Trott chides with a giggle, “Stop it.”

“What, does this tickle?” Smith teases back.

Trott elbows him and the kelpie moves away with a smirk.

The smell of the casserole baking in the oven wafts through the air, along with the sounds of Ross sautéing vegetables.

When Trott’s finished, he ties on a feather and trims up the loose string with a pair of scissors.

“Alright, there you go.” The selkie kisses Smith’s forehead as he hands the dreamcatcher to him. "Hopefully it gets better for you, sunshine."

Smith smiles down at the dreamcatcher in his hands, feeling the subtle workings of Trott’s magic in the winding knots. "I hope so too."  
  


* * *

  


It didn't.

Days went on, and regardless if Smith went out or not the nightmares plagued him. He would wake up in a cold sweat, shivering. The sheets would be scattered, halfway off the bed, or wound tightly around his body like they were trying to strangle him.

The rest of his court slept soundlessly. The dreamcatcher worked fine for them.

"I can brew you some sleeping potions, but that's a temporary solution." Trott was working from home today, feet propped up on the coffee table with a laptop in his lap.

"Honestly, Trott, I think I'll take it. Even if it's temporary.” Smith says morosely. “I just...don't want to risk it if it's going to trap me in, unable to wake up." The idea of being stuck in the nightmares was worse than no sleep at all.

"It's not going to do that, sunshine. You'll fall asleep so fast you won't even realize it, and wake up without any bad dreams." Trott looks up from his laptop, at Smith. "The thing is, is that I can only brew a few at a time, and it'll take a couple weeks to brew."

"A couple _weeks_?" The kelpie rubs his tired eyes and groans. “Trott, I can’t fucking wait that long.”

"I know." Trott frowns. He strokes Smith's stubbled cheek with his knuckles. "I’m sorry, sunshine. I'll do some more research, but that's all I have right now."

Smith sighs and plucks his keys from the pocket of his jacket. He stands up from the couch, spins the keyring around his fingers, and stretches with a tired moan.

"Going out?" Ross asks, looking up from the geometric patterns he'd been drawing at Smith's feet. Trott had bought him a notebook and a set of pencils, because Ross traced patterns in the floor, sometimes with his tail. The selkie was tired of all the scratches.

"Yeah." Smith runs a hand through his hair as he yawns. "I think I'm gonna get some food. Do you guys want anything?"

Trott glances up and shakes his head. "I'm fine. Ross?"

The gargoyle shrugs. "I think we should just order pizza when Sips gets home."

"Alright." Smith tosses his keys in his hand and heads towards the door. "I'm leaving then."

"Be back by dinner, alright?" Trott calls over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah." He shuts the door behind him with a dull thunk.  
  


* * *

  


Last night’s nightmare was still fresh in his mind. He’d fallen into hell, but as he was burnt alive there were whispers. Three or four dark voices garbled temptations straight into his ears as he was held down under the lava.

_We have souls alike, kelpie. That is, we don’t have any at all!_

_We collect their deaths like trophies. Their breath their last release._

_Sinful thoughts lead to sinful deeds._

_We’re going to keep you where you flourish best._

_Sink our teeth in; make the destruction you favor brew even stronger._

_We will take everything you have and make it ours._

_We’re going to make you bleed..._

Smith stayed away from the river and away from clubs and bars. It didn’t stop the nightmares. Even still, the itch in his mind twisted further; the harder it was to keep away. He wanted to feel someone’s life bubble away between his fingertips. He wanted someone to drown even more than usual.

He needed a solution. Something to stop the nightmares. Trott’s temporary potions weren’t going to cut it. Smith woke up every night with his heart pounding in his chest. The nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep; he couldn’t kill without fear of repercussion.

Repercussion from what, he didn’t know. Smith never regretted what he did before, but after the near-death of Sips, he began to doubt himself. The nightmares turned his waking life into an uneasy gamble. If he killed, he wondered what they would have to say when he went to sleep. If he didn’t, he wondered if maybe his nightmares were right.

Drastic times called for drastic measures.

The longer these nightmares lasted, the less sleep he would get. The shadows in his mind would eat him alive until there was nothing left. Dreamcatchers, charms, potions, not hunting...nothing changed. The nightmares still came night after night, stealing away any rest and casting darkness even into his waking thoughts.

He had no other options.

If you’re looking for respite in the city, for a solution for something dark, there are too many options with a variety of consequences. Smith was looking for something more effective. If the nightmares were a prophecy, if he was destined to some horrible death, he wanted to avoid it at all costs.

And if there’s anyone who can change your fate, it’s the Norn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/114982534439  
> bridge
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/115345090328/are-soul-dark-pale
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/122742784423/dahhlias-the-tops-of-parking-garages-have-the  
> parking garage view
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/123040017328/peonyandbee-release-green-stones-by  
> river stones
> 
> “I would forget it fain; But, O, it presses to my memory, like  
> damned guilty deeds to a sinners mind.”  
> -Romeo and Juliet, Act III, scene 2.  
> Juliet talking about Tybalt’s death
> 
> Macbeth:  
> “Canst thou not minister to mind diseas’d,  
> Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
> Raze out the written troubles of the brain,  
> And with some sweet oblivious antidote  
> Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff  
> Which weighs upon the heart?”  
> Doctor:  
> “Therein the patient  
> Must minister to himself.”  
> Macbeth:  
> “Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it.”  
> -Macbeth Act 5, scene 3  
> Macbeth talking to a doctor about his wife, Lady Macbeth’s failing health and the fact that her guilty conscience cannot be cured by medicine


	2. minister to mind diseas'd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 2 cws: memory loss; mentions of drowning, murdering, getting off on murdering someone via drowning, and death  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> I apologize in advance for the shortness of chapter 3
> 
> songs for this chapter:  
> The March of the Black Queen- Queen (Nano)  
> Spellbound- Siouxsie and the Banshees (Nano)  
> Black Sheep- Gin Wigmore (Nano)  
> The Devil Within (Piano Version)- Digital Daggers
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/

Neon lights flood the street. They flicker in the dimming light of day and trickle into alleyways.

Smith is leaning up against a light post. He rolls a dying cigarette butt between his finger and thumb, and the embers rain to the ground like fiery glitter.

He stands in front of a shop in the shoddier, scummier part of town. This part of town didn’t quite fit in the city. It would be garbage court territory, if the street had a name, or if phone books or classified ads listed the shops. But this section of road would seemingly disappear. Unless you went looking, asking for something.

 _Eternity_ , the neon blue sign in the window reads, with a pair of pink lips below it. _Charms and trinkets_. Below the window is a flower box, but nothing that you’d want to get closer to. Smith recognizes them- wolfsbane, nightshade, foxglove, and mandrake. All used in witchery, all poisonous.

Smith licks the smoke from his lips. He leaves the cigarette butt under the lonely halo of fluorescent light and steps toward the shadows of the shop. He gives the plants a wide berth and enters.

The door creaks open and Smith feels the wards brush his hand where it rests on the doorknob. A bell chimes over his head and when he steps inside the floorboards creak. He shivers and lets the door shut behind him. It closes silently.

The kelpie moves forward into the shop. There are shelves filled with bottles, baskets and displays lining the walls.

The hair on the back of his neck rises. He looks around uneasily. It feels like there are eyes everywhere, watching him. His heavy boots clunk on the wooden floorboards as he walks, and it’s the only thing making a sound.

“Hello?” Smith calls out. He peeks around a corner, where there are two tables full of pottery and a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Behind the counter is a beaded curtain blocking the doorway. He moves closer and cranes his neck to try to see past the stratification, but it’s no use. He can’t see the room past it.

A rush of wind pushes up to his back, like someone walked in behind him, but the air is too cold to be from outside.

“ _I’ve been expecting you, kelpie_.” A voice says, bright and musical right in his ear.

Smith whips around. His hip knocks into the table and an ornate vase wobbles precariously.

“ _You broke it, you buy it, by the way_."

Try as he might to catch it, the vase crashes to the floor.

Smith looks up from the wreckage, sighing. Standing next to the shelves where he’d walked in is a woman, dark and pale, wearing a red and gold cheongsam. She’s shorter than him, but that only seems to make her more intimidating where she grins from the shadows.

"You're not going to tell me I'm the one, are you?" The kelpie drawls, fishing in his jacket for his wallet.

The woman giggles. "No, you're definitely not ‘one’ material."

He forks over the money for the vase. When she takes it, her hand moves into the light, and Smith finally notices the purple swirling stains on her arms.

This woman is the Flux Queen. The Norn.

He’d found the right place.

"Can you see the future, then?" Smith asks. “You knew about the vase, and about me coming here.” He moves back, careful not to knock anything else over, so she can take the money to the register.

The white of her grin is such a contrast to the flux that stains her face. "More like feel it. I can't actually _see_ anything." She says, stepping around the counter. Her eyes are cloudy but strangely enough they meet his spot on.

He shivers and looks away.

“This way.” The Norn smiles and leaves the money in the till to walk through the beaded curtain behind her.

Smith follows her into the back room. The tails of the beaded strands flick at his ankles but clack soundlessly against the molding of the doorway.

 _Odd_.

In the back room, hidden, is an altar. Upon the altar is a chalice filled with what looks to be blood, a blackened skull, and an assortment of candles. Jars of strange liquids line the walls, along with a drawing table cluttered with materials. A chalk circle is on the floor in front of the altar.

The Flux Queen has turned her back to him, and is collecting things from boxes under the table. Her long black hair cascades down to her mid back.

“Tell me, kelpie...what brings you here?” She queries, fiddling with crystals and holding them up to the light.

Smith swallows thickly. “Shouldn’t you know that already?” He watches the gems sparkle between her flux-stained fingertips.

She wrenches open a drawer, chuckling. “I do indeed. But to grant what you wish, you need to ask it of me.”

The silence in the shop is unnerving. Smith shuffles his feet and clenches his hands around his keys to make a sound and disturb the quiet. He watches as the Norn upends a box of crystals onto the already cluttered table and starts to sort through them.

“Why is it so damn quiet in here?” The crystals hitting the table didn’t make a single sound.

The Norn laughs. “Is that your question?”

“No.” Smith frowns.

It’s important that he gets the wording right, for what he’s asking.

Smith’s palms are sweaty as they slide against the metallic keys in his pocket.

“I need you to get rid of my nightmares.” He utters at last.

The Norn hums. It sounds somewhat like pity. “So be it.” She agrees, throwing a few items from the table into the chalk circle. A scattering of gems and what looks to be bones are flung in a random fashion.

“Step into the circle.” She orders him. “And take off your jacket.”

The kelpie snorts. “What, you want me to strip for you?”

“Hah, you wish.” The Norn replies, nudging Smith forward past the chalk lines as she crosses the room. “‘s nothing I’d want to see anyway, even if I was able.”

Smith’s mouth drops open at the burn, but he snaps it shut and scowls instead. The Norn giggles and continues talking as she lifts a jar of bubbly red liquid off the wall.

“No, the sigils need to be placed in a vulnerable spot somewhere in the middle of your body, to draw energy from it.” She unscrews the jar in her hands and tops off the chalice on the altar. The liquid bubbles and hisses, and smells of brimstone. “The small of the back is the easiest, and you can keep it hidden if you so desire.”

“Alright.” He takes off his leather jacket and tosses it at his feet. Just to be safe, he shoves his keys in the pocket of his jeans. Any wrong move, and he could get out of the shop as quickly as possible. “What do you need to do, exactly?”

“I will imprint a sigil on your skin. It will act as a conduit for the spell. As long as my mark is on your back, you will have no nightmares.”

Smith clenches and unclenches his hands. “And what will it cost me?” He asks through gritted teeth. He felt antsy in this shop. And he should- he’s making a deal with fate herself.

"Your nightmares derive...from your thirst to kill. But death is in your blood, will run through your veins from now and beyond the veil." The Flux Queen sets a clay jar onto the altar, alongside a set of runestones. “I cannot change what you are, or why you are. But I can change your mind.”

She circles him, her icy hands trailing across his hip. Smith struggles not to shiver as they dart up the hem of his shirt. She splays her cold fingers on the small of his back.

“In exchange for what haunts you...I will take what makes them substantial.”

Her breath against his back is like the wind on a cold day.

“In exchange for your nightmares, I will take your memory.”

Pain lances through his spine. Her fingers feel like spikes. Smith lets out a scream and falls to his knees. His body feels on fire but his vision becomes enveloped with purple. The Norn is chanting something strange in some language he can’t understand. He can hear the thump of his heart loud in his ears, a backing beat to the cadence of her words.

Sparks float from his head like fireflies and collect in the clay jar on the altar. As each one drifts away from his head his vision gets brighter and brighter, until it whites out completely. Smith’s head is pounding. His breath comes out in short pants. He can feel his body shaking. He tastes blood and slump to the floorboards in exhaustion when her fingers move away.

The Norn chuckles darkly as Smith’s consciousness fades into a heavy slumber.

“ _Sweet dreams, kelpie_.”  
  


* * *

  


Birds chirp outside the window and the smell of Ross’ cooking wafts through the open doorway of the bedroom. Smith wakes and blinks his eyes open. He looks about the room where he lies cocooned in blankets, alone.

He doesn’t remember going to sleep...

“You alright, sunshine?” Trott asks at breakfast. “You came home last night and went straight to bed. Slept like a log.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Smith takes a seat across from Sips, who is just finishing his meal. Ross sets a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast on the table in front of Smith, who thanks him quietly.

Where did he go last night? Out? He had no idea, but whatever- he must have been really tired, is all.

His back is a little sore, too, which is strange. Maybe he went for a run? The muscle soreness could be explained by that.

But Smith hadn’t gone for a run since he’d stolen his Dodge Charger all those years ago. Back then, he and Trott didn’t have a reliable source of transportation, so they would walk everywhere. At the time, they didn’t have the money for a taxi, never mind the money for a car. And Trott didn’t trust anything else. Sometimes in the mornings, Smith would go running to think and stretch his legs. Or if he and Trott had fought about something, he would blow off steam that way.

Running kept his mind occupied. If he was bothered about something, the run would help him make things clearer, or let them slip away if he wanted. He only needed to worry about the path he ran, not anything he’d said or done.

When he was running, Smith would get into a meditative sort of headspace. He would focus on the river beside him and the sun peeking over the horizon, and nothing else. Horse and human form would blur in his mind until he wasn’t sure if his feet or his hooves were striking the ground. 

At the end of the run, he would go back to the crappy apartment-of-the-week that he and Trott shared and complain about the lack of hot water. Trott would just tell him to stop whining and go wash up already, they had work to do.

The kelpie smiles at the memory as he eats, and eyes Trott next to him at the table. The selkie’s nibbling on a piece of bacon, with his head bent over today’s paper.

Sips gulps down the last of his orange juice and pushes his chair back with a wooden creak. He vacates the room to get ready for work.

Trott lets out a hum. His reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose while his eyes scan the page. The newspaper ruffles as he turns it over to continue reading.

“Anything interesting there, Trott?” Smith asks through a mouthful of eggs.

“Not really.” Trott says, in the way that means ‘nothing terribly useful.’ “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Smith, it’s gross.”

Smith rolls his eyes heavily. He continues to eat with his fork clinking on the ceramic plate.

Ross is cooking the last batch of food for himself while the water fae finish eating in relative silence. They can hear Sips getting ready for work, since the kitchen shares a wall with the master bath. There’s the sound of the shower running, water rushing through pipes, and then the fan kicking in to dehumidify the bathroom when the shower switches off.

“Okay, I’m off to work!” Sips says as he enters the kitchen, straightening his tie. He ruffles Trott’s hair on his way past him to get his lunch out of the fridge.

“Have a good day, Sips.” Trott says into his mug of tea, half-way into taking a drink.

Lunch in hand, Sips snatches Smith’s half-eaten toast off his plate.

“Oi, what-”

Sips waggles his eyebrows at him as he takes a bite and ducks away from the hand that reaches out to grab him in retaliation.

Smith protests over Sips’ crunching noises and toast-muffled giggle.

Ross hands the mortal king a thermos when Sips moves to walk past him. Steam rises from the tiny hole in the lid.

“Here’s your coffee.” The gargoyle says with a smile. He brushes crumbs from Sips’ suit jacket.

Sips chews and swallows the bite of buttered toast he’d taken. “Thanks.” He smiles back and presses a fervent kiss to Ross’ mouth.

Trott and Smith watch with sparkling eyes as Ross and Sips kiss. There’s a look of utter devotion on Ross’ face along with the smile half-hidden by Sips’ mouth.

It was a little scary how much sway Sips really had over them all. But the mortal king never compelled them to do anything, magically speaking. He never forced them, and they wanted to make him happy anyway.

Sips didn’t have a speck of magic in him besides the delicately woven bond from the King of Misrule ritual. The fact was both a blessing and a curse, because it left him vulnerable, and Trott was always looking to make that bond stronger and give Sips more protection. They would do everything they could to keep their king safe. They couldn’t afford to fail him again, like they did that day at the pool.

After a few moments, Sips pulls away and takes the thermos from Ross’ hands. “I better go. Don’t want to be late.” He winks. “See you motherfuckers later!” Sips shouts, heading out the door.

The remaining members of the garbage court hear the beep of Sips’ horn and the telltale belting of Freddie Mercury being blasted from the stereo before the apartment once again lapses into quiet.

“Fucker stole my toast.” Smith grumbles.

Trott rolls his eyes. “Make another piece, then, if you want more.”

Ross takes a seat on the floor at Trott’s feet and places his plate in his lap. “You can have mine, if you want.” He says to Smith, handing his piece of toast up to the kelpie.

“Thanks, Ross.” Smith takes it and grins cheekily.

Ross just shakes his head and starts in on his breakfast.

Trott leans back in his chair and finishes the rest of his tea. “I’m going to work half a day at the shop today.” He says, licking his lips and refolding the newspaper. “After lunch we’re going location scouting for the upcoming party.”

“Another? Are we doing anything special?” Ross asks from the floor.

“Oh I’ll make it special alright.” Smith growls.

“No theme to look for this time.” Trott clarifies, “Just the general requirements- a big open area, a place for the bar, and a place for the DJ.”

“Also, actual fucking room to dance, unlike last time. The last place was shit.” Smith piles the rest of his eggs and bacon on the slice of toast Ross had given him, and folds it into a sandwich.

“That’s why you’re coming with me this time, so that won’t happen.”

Last time, Trott had heard rumors about an abandoned maintenance tunnel between buildings on the university’s campus. He’d scoped the place out alone, and determined that the long underground hallways led to a wide generator room. The generator already seemed unused, so all it took was hiring a cleaning crew to come through and sweep the place out to prepare it for the party.

But the factor Trott hadn’t thought about was the height of the tunnels. Sips, Smith, and Ross had all hit their heads on exposed piping during the party, the former two walking out with massive welts on their heads and cursing. Ross had busted a water line with his forehead, spraying fetid water everywhere. Nobody was in a good mood when they went to bed that night.

“We’re definitely going to find a place with vaulted ceilings this time.” Ross mutters in between scarfing down the rest of his food. “Warehouses work well for a reason.”

Trott hums in thought and taps his fingers on the side of his empty cup.

Smith burps quietly and pats his full stomach with a pleased sigh.

Ross’ fork drags across the empty plate, grating against the ceramic. It makes Trott wince.

“Ross.” He tuts.

“Sorry, sorry.” Ross stills his movement and stands. He collects the assortment of plates and cups on the table and takes them to the sink.

Smith chuckles at the sight. It never fails to amuse him that their gargoyle, who used to have claws and busts heads open for them when they fight, also cooks and cleans like he’s their housewife. Ross is wearing the apron they found him last winter, black with white lettering in KISS font reading “Rock of Ages’, and nothing else. He’s elbow deep in dishwater, beatboxing and clinking silverware together under the suds.

Trott gets up from the table and fetches his messenger bag from where it sits on the counter away from the pots and pans. “I’m heading out.” He says, taking his reading glasses off his face and stashing them away.

“Have a good day, Trott.” Ross chirps.

Trott smiles. “Hope so, sunshine.” He stretches up on his tip toes to kiss Ross’ on the cheek. “It’s going to be a busy one today.” Trott sighs as he tightens his selkie skin around his waist, and walks around the table to kiss Smith goodbye too.

“Try not to cause too much trouble while I’m gone.” Trott chides good-naturedly as he swings the strap of his messenger bag over his head.

“Us? Never!” Smith winks at Trott, and Ross gives the selkie a grin over his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Trott.”  
  


* * *

  


The gargoyle, as per usual, is the first to point it out. Smith drives around the perimeter of the abandoned warehouse while Trott and Ross look out the windows. The building is a long, stout place, with glass panes in the roof letting in natural light.

“Pull up over there, by that loading dock.” Trott tells Smith.

When they’ve stopped, Ross hops out of the car. The bricks are rough against his palms as he climbs the building. His toes brush the grout lines and he pulls himself up onto the roof. He loves being up here, on the rooftops. The sun is shining and the wind is in his hair, and there’s nothing better than a view. This building isn’t high enough to see very far, but he can see the smokestacks and chimneys dotting the rooves that are so common in the Juror’s District.

“How’s it lookin’, Ross?” Trott calls up.

Right, the warehouse. Ross moves away from where he was perching on the edge, and peers down through the glass skylights.

“Looks like a factory.” He yells down to the others. “There’s some assembly lines and machinery, but other than that it’s empty.”

“No people?”

“Not from the looks of it.”

“Come on down, and I’ll bust the lock.”

Ross does, somewhat regretfully, and meets Trott and Smith at the loading dock door.

Trott has one hand hovering over the door handle and an ear pressed to the grey metal door. His fingers move like he’s typing on a keyboard. He mutters something short under his breath, and with a flick of his wrist, twists his hand in a half-circle motion. There’s a cracking sound of locks breaking, and the door creaks open a half inch.

Trott stands back and beams before pushing the door open completely and leading the way inside.

The air inside is stuffy and the Garbage Court can see the dust in the beams of light shining in through the windows. The concrete floor is chipped and cracked in places, rough, and uneven. The assembly lines and rusted machinery Ross had mentioned were towards the front of the building. Towards the back is a open area covered in skid marks and oil stains. A small set of stairs leads up to a mezzanine and what could be a foreman’s office.

“Not bad...” Smith says as they walk from one side of the building to the other.

Trott examines the windows and the machinery. “We’ll have to hire someone to take these belts out, and repave the floor.”

“It’s definitely enough headroom.” Ross adds in, staring up at the skylighted ceiling.

“Yeah. I like that there’s an office.” Trott starts up the stairs and stops at the mezzanine, testing the weight of the railing lining it.

“Should we put the DJ on the far wall, or the bar?” Smith asks, pointing.

“Probably the DJ. If we make people go through the crowd for a drink, they’ll stay away from the door longer.”

Trott smiles. “Nice choice, Ross.”

Ross smiles back.

The selkie turns from the balcony and takes his cell phone out of his pocket. He unlocks the door to the office, steps inside and tries the light.

“I’m going to make some business calls.” Trott calls from the doorway. “Smith, try to find the electrical box and see if that works. It should be along the wall somewhere.”

The kelpie sighs and he and Ross split up, looking for a box. Smith spots it on the wall next to the mezzanine and strides over, flipping every switch to see what it does. The pendulum lights turn on one by one, making the concrete look uglier in the pale yellowed glow.

Task complete, Smith sees something dark orange in the corner of the factory. He walks over to find a basketball, slightly deflated and gray with dust.

“Ross, check this out!”

Ross turns from the window he’d been looking out of and crosses the room. “What is it?”

“A basketball.” He tosses it towards Ross and the gargoyle barely manages to catch it.

“What’s it for?” Ross asks, fingers feeling the stippled texture.

“It’s a ball. You can throw it, you can catch it, you can kick it. Come on, lets play.”

Smith and Ross toss the ball back and forth, the kelpie moving farther away each time. The sound of Trott talking on the phone about maintenance to the factory trickles down from the open door of the office, until he shuts the door to block out their ruckus.

One of Smith’s throws comes up short, and the basketball bounces a few times before skidding into a roll. Ross stops it with his foot, picks it up, and throws it back. Smith lets it bounce, the sharp sound echoing in the empty room, before kicking it back.

The gargoyle returns it with a throw.

“Try kicking it, Ross.” Smith grins, stopping the ball with his foot and hopping to regain balance. He picks up the basketball, grimaces at how dirty it’s become, and bounces it across the room to Ross.

Mid-bounce, Ross gives the ball a firm, hard punt. But instead of across the factory, the force and trajectory of Ross’ foot sends the basketball upwards. It smashes through a skylight in the roof, and the entire window shatters with a loud crash.

“For fuck’s SAKE!” Trott screeches from inside the office, startled.

Ross and Smith gape up at the jagged hole and watch the busted glass rain onto the ground, before meeting each other’s stupefied gaze across the factory floor.

Trott throws open the door and gives them an incredulous look. Ross and Smith double over in laughter, holding their sides and nearly falling onto the floor.

Trott takes one look from them to the broken window above.

“Smith! Ross!” He shouts angrily across the empty factory.

The kelpie and the gargoyle laugh harder. The basketball is nowhere in sight.

“What the fuck did you DO?” Trott stomps over, leaving glass-dust-prints in his wake.

“I can’t believe it went that far!” Smith wheezes, tilting his head back and laughing.

“I kicked a ball- and it-” Ross manages to say between peals of laughter. He gestures up at the ceiling, and when Smith finally falls over, laughs more.

Trott rubs a hand over his face and sighs. ”I guess I have another phone call to make.” He grumbles, inspecting the damage to the window with a grimace. Trott shakes his head at Ross and Smith, who are still laughing.

“For fuck’s sake you two...” He mutters, dialing up a repair service. “I can’t take you anywhere.”  
  


* * *

  


Once they’re home, Trott starts on the party-planning while Smith and Ross watch tv. Sips calls and says he’s working late, so they go out for dinner. They walk around the pier for a bit, eating hot dogs and pretzels they got from the little food stands nearby. Smith heads for his car parked on the curb when they get home.

Trott latches onto his wrist before he can get away. “Going out?”

Smith tugs his arm from Trott’s grip. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Are you going to be home by a decent time tonight, Smith?” The selkie folds his arms across his chest.

Smith rolls his eyes and groans. “Who are you, my fucking mother?”

“No, and I shouldn’t have to be.” Trott snarls right back.

“What’s your fucking deal then?”

_scriiiiiiitch._

“My fucking deal? What, I can’t want you home and safe at a decent time-”

“It’s not like anything’s going to happen-”

“That’s not the point,” Trott sighs. “I’m tired of waiting up for you.”

“Then don’t wait up, it’s that simple!”

_scriiiitch._

“You shouldn’t be out so late when we’re home waiting for you.”

 _scriiiiiiiiiiitch_.

“For fuck’s sake...” Smith shakes his head. “I just-”

“Is that _really_ so much to ask?” Trott asks incredulously. “That you come home before the sun crests the fucking sky?”

_scriiiitch._

The water fae glare at each other for a few seconds. Then they look over at Ross, who is scraping an R in the sidewalk with his tail.

“ _Ross_.”

Ross looks up and grins sheepishly.

Trott sighs and shakes his head. “Just be home before two, okay?” He says to Smith. He turns and walks with Ross up the short stretch of sidewalk towards their apartment. Smith watches them round the corner and then gets into his car and drives off.  
  


* * *

  


The game is so simple, and yet always so thrilling.

Smith licks his lips, feels his pulse thrumming along with the rumbling engine of his car.

It’s all so easy, so...rewarding, in a sense, to charm someone.

He only showed them a good time, after all. And if they happened to drown, well...

He grins at himself in the rearview mirror, with sharp eyes and dagger for a smile.

There’s a lesson for them, to trust a fae.

Impatient, barely abiding traffic laws, Smith drives. Over the speed limit and screeching to a halt at red lights. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes glance towards the back seat of his car.

He can feel it already, the heat on his palms, the feel of them riding him, shaking as they drown. The light of the water in the car...and the look in their eyes...

A loud series of honks jerks him from his daydream. The light has turned green and the car behind him is cussing out the window. Smith flips off the driver behind him before gunning it forward.

Where was he going?

Right- catching a kill.

He's driving down the main boulevard, heading towards the center of the city. There are various clubs and bars to choose from, but tonight he wants something a bit sleazy. Besides, it’s best to get away from the main road. Don't want to draw _too_ much attention.

He takes a side road and scans up and down the buildings until one catches his eye.

Rocky Straits, a gay strip club. He hadn’t pulled someone from there in a long time.

Smith turns into the parking lot in the back alley, humming at the convenient low lighting, and steps out of the car. He's brimming with excitement, can feel it in his hands, can taste it in the air. Along with car exhaust and smog, as is normal in the city.

The kelpie gives his reflection in the car a shit-eating grin before walking towards the entrance to the club. His hand is sweaty on the dented metal handle, and when he pulls open the door the music and lights hound his senses. He steps inside the club and is met with an enveloping darkness.  
  


* * *

  


" _In the criminal justice system, sexually-based offences are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the special victims unit. These are their stories._ "

Another episode of Law & Order: SVU starts playing on tv. Trott sits on the couch and fiddles with some broken charms. The wall clock in the kitchen tolls three times, and he sighs and glances over his shoulder at the door. Smith still isn’t home.

Trott hears the bedroom door open and close, and hears slow, heavy footfalls walking down the hall.

Ross. The gargoyle appears in the living room on cue, and looks down at Trott as he scratches his face.

“You’re still up?” Ross asks, voice rough from sleep. He blinks in the dim, blue light cast by the tv screen.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Trott replies with a sigh. “Smith’s still out.”

Ross nods, and walks over to the couch to sit sideways at Trott’s feet.

“Why’re you up, sunshine?” The selkie brushes his fingers through Ross’ hair as the gargoyle leans his head on Trott’s knee.

“Stomach ache.” Ross replies shortly, biting his lip and not meeting Trott’s eyes.

“Ross...you don’t get stomach aches.” Trott says slowly. “You don’t have a stomach.”

“I can adapt.” Ross mutters.

“Yes...but according to you, shitting is pointless.”

“Seems like a waste. Of time and effort.”

Trott snorts at the bad pun. Ross looks up at him, confused.

The selkie shakes his head with a small smile. “Why would you adapt just a stomach and nothing else?”

Ross doesn’t reply, instead biting his lip and staring back at Trott.

He adapted a basic digestive system, from what they could tell, but magic digested his food, not biles and acids. Most of his behavior, emotions, and biological responses were learned rather than inherent. Ross didn’t get stomach aches, unless the other members of his court had eaten a ton of food and were feeling bloated. There was no reason for Ross to have a stomach ache now, in the middle of the night, when the rest of his court was fine.

“Ross...” Trott sighs. “What’s bothering you?” He moves his hand away from Ross’ hair. “You can tell me, you know.”

“I know.” Ross says quietly. “Do you remember when I said I could feel Smith when he hunts?”

Trott nods, gaze stern.

“Well...” Ross looks away. “I can feel it now. It’s not...malicious, but it’s keeping me up.”

Trott rubs his tired eyes. “Do you know where he is?”

“Somewhere...” Ross licks his lips and gestures vaguely towards the windows. “On the edges of downtown. I can’t pinpoint him exactly.”

Trott looks down at the broken charm in his hands, and sets it on the coffee table. He’s not going to be fixing it tonight, but he’ll put it in his office later. He frowns down at his selkie skin spread across his lap and traces a hairline scar with his thumb, grimacing sadly. When he looks up, he finds Ross watching him, chewing his lip. Trott looks into the gargoyle’s eyes and notices the light from the tv flickering in the dark blue.

“Do you really feel like you have a stomach ache?” The selkie asks, stroking his fingers through Ross’ hair again. His fingertips catch on the horns and Ross shivers.

“No.” Ross frowns. “It’s...uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable how? Where?” Trott knows it has to feel strange, but he wants to know the details. He wants to know how exactly Smith’s magic can inadvertently affect Ross.

Ross looks down at his arm. He curls his fingers into a fist and then loosens them one by one.

“Where the bond was made, it’s warm. And where my stomach would be, if I was...at least mortal, it’s uncomfortable. Like...” He trails off, swallows thickly.

“Like what?” Trott pries.

“Like...like someone’s squeezing me around the middle. Like they’re...” Ross pulls his arm back to his chest. “Trying to squeeze the breath out of me.”

Trott moves his hand away from Ross’ cheek again, and fists his hands into the edge of the couch cushion. Ross watches his fingers tighten in the fabric, and then looks away. He stares out the window and sees their reflections in the glass.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like, when Smith actually drowns people.” He continues. “All I’ve felt are these echos, which I don’t know how to explain, and the thin charm he spreads at our parties. I can feel...kind of a heart beat. It’s slower though, and it feels more like a pulse of energy with the bond. Ebbing and waxing.”

Trott’s hands slowly loosen from the couch as he lets out a slow breath.

“And then there’s a thin layer of...” Ross scowls. “Satisfaction and dizzy feelings of lust.” He curls his fingers around Trott’s pajama-clad calf. “It’s more than just Smith being horny, it’s...”

“It’s the addiction and it’s the high.” Trott sneers.

“Partly. It just feels...” Ross shrugs. “Weird.” He had run out of words, and wasn’t sure how to explain. Smith’s bond with him felt like a live wire, warm to the touch and tingling like breath on the back of his neck. The only word he could describe it as was _want_.

Ross looks back at Trott. The selkie’s jaw is clenched, lips pulled into a narrow line.

“You’re mad at him aren’t you.” Ross states.

Trott doesn’t say anything.

“Because he’s late, or because he does what he does?”

Trott sighs. “Mostly because he’s late. But,” He grinds his teeth and looks away from Ross. “This charm of his is too much. Now it affects you, and even though it’s small, it could get out of control at the drop of a dime.”

“Drop of a dime?”

“It could get out of hand quickly and without warning.” Trott clarifies. “I _hate_ the fact that he’s out there, doing that. It hasn’t settled right with me, after you and Sips came, and Smith started killing nearly every night.”

Ross strokes his hand up and down Trott’s calf. “He’ll come home.” He assures him.

“Of course he will.” Trott spits. He nudges Ross out of the way so he can stand. “Smelling like the fucking river. He comes home reeking of sex and magic, and crawls into bed as if we weren’t waiting for him.”

 _As if we weren’t good enough_ , Trott doesn’t say. He turns the tv off and picks the broken charm up from the coffee table. Trott follows Ross as the gargoyle stands too and leads him down the short hallway. But Trott stops at his office instead of moving further.

“Sometimes I wonder if he belongs to the river more than to us.” He says, opening the office door. “And if he does...then there’s no point in trying, is there?”

Ross fidgets, tail twisting and curling as he shuffles his feet. “He’s ours, Trott. No matter what he does, that’s not going to change. You know that.”

Trott doesn’t reply and avoids Ross’ eyes. He leans in the doorway of his office, one hand on the doorframe and the other holding the broken charm.

“You’re not coming to bed, are you?” The gargoyle asks sadly.

Trott shakes his head no. “Not until he comes home.”

Ross frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but instead, yawns.

“Go back to bed, Ross.” Trott mutters as he slips into his office. “I’m probably not going to sleep anytime soon.” He shuts the door with a short ‘goodnight’, blocking Ross’ view. His hand stills on the doorknob and he waits for Ross to stumble back to bed. The floor of the hallway shifts and creaks and then everything is still again.

Trott lets go of the doorknob like it was burning him. He rubs his tired face for a second before leaning against the door and letting out a very long, weary sigh.  
  


* * *

  


Smith sings a song under his breath and climbs the steps to the apartment. He slots the key into the lock and twists to open the door with a grin. But that grin drops with a startled yelp when he comes face-to-face with Trott.

“Fucking-!” Smith runs a hand through his hair and laughs nervously. “Fucking hell, Trott. You scared the shit out of me, mate.” He steps in and shuts the door.

The selkie is as unwavering as steel. “Where have you been?”

Smith’s grin fades. “I-...a...club?”

He remembers parking his car...and walking up to the door, but...

Trott raises a pillow he was holding and shoves it into Smith’s arms. “I’ve had it up to _here_ with you coming home late. I’ve told you time and again, Smith, but you don’t _listen_.”

“Wh- Trott. Trott, wait. I’m-...sorry?” The kelpie shakes his head in confusion.

Why couldn’t he remember where he’d been...or what he did...or how long he’s been gone...

Trott barks a humorless laugh and turns towards the hallway. “Nice try. Have fun sleeping on the couch- you’ve got about thirty minutes left before sunrise.”

The selkie retreats into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Blocking Smith out.

Smith frowns and sniffs his shoulder. River water. So he did drown someone.

But...why couldn't he remember?

And he pissed off Trott, too. Dammit.

Smith groans and walks, defeated, over to the couch.

Sunrise? He’d been out all night?

It was strange. Why couldn’t he remember? Too many drinks? He didn’t feel drunk, and his mouth tasted...rather minty, actually. Whoever he kissed and killed must have had fresh breath.

_No use worrying about it right now, I suppose. I better get some sleep._

The kelpie yawns and toes off his shoes under the coffee table. He grimaces at the feeling of his wet socks, and discards them without bothering to look where they land. Smith curls up on the couch with the pillow Trott gave him and promptly falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  


“Rise ‘n’ shine, motherfucker!”

Smith growls and cracks open an eye as Sips presses a plate of food to his chest. The mortal king looks so pleased at the sight of a disgruntled and sleep-deprived kelpie.

“You couldn’t just wait?” Smith hisses. He blocks the light with his hand and tries to push the plate away.

“Nah, orders from the selkie. ‘Sips, wake up the disgusting-smelling lump on the couch and feed him breakfast.’”

Sips presses the plate harder as he takes a drink of his beer and Smith picks a bit off the top and flicks it at him.

“Fuck, _Smiffy_! I made that, dammit!” Sips moves the plate away and sets it down on the coffee table so he can brush the eggs off of his shirt. “Now you got fucking eggs in the carpet, come on!”

“Way to go, Smith!” Ross calls from the kitchen.

“Shut the _fuck up_ , Ross!” Smith replies over his shoulder as he sits up.

“Ross, I’m thinkin’ maybe I shouldn’t feed the lump, he’s a bit of an ass!”

“Lump of ass! Hahahah!” Ross calls from the kitchen. There was a clinking sound of dishes in the sink.

“ _Shut the fuck up_ , Ross!” The kelpie groans and rubs his face. His stomach growls and he looks longingly at the food. “Sorry, Sips. I had a rough night.” _Probably_.

“Yeah? Well that’s no fucking excuse.” Sips pokes a finger into Smith’s cheek to get him to look up. “You made Trott stay up fucking waiting for you. Now we’ve all got an unhappy selkie on our hands, and nobody likes that.” He lets out an aggravated sigh and picks up the plate again to hand it to Smith.

Smith takes it.

“Now eat up. I don’t want Trott mad at me too because I didn’t feed the lump on the couch.” Sips finishes his beer, gently bonks Smith in the head with it, and then leaves the room.

“Thanks, Sips...” The kelpie mutters as he eats the eggs. They were actually pretty good for once, if Sips did make them. “At least you’re enjoying the schadenfreude.”

“Whatever the fuck that is, I’m enjoying that too!” Ross shouts from the kitchen.

“It’s enjoying my misery, you fuck!” Smith shouts back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m enjoying that!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you back! Eat shit!”

Smith growls half-heartedly, scowling as he turns back to his plate and spears a sausage with his fork.

Today was going to be a pain.  
  


* * *

  


It was strange, waking up the next morning in bed on the nights he went out. He didn't know where he went or what he did. He knew he killed and he assumed he drank, the only cause he could think of for his forgetful nights.

If there was some other reason for this strange set of events, that meant something was wrong. And if he'd done something stupid and dangerous, he would have figured it out by now, wouldn't he? Or Trott would.

Smith wasn't too keen on that occurring, especially with Trott stressed out planning for the upcoming Garbage Court party. The selkie was already clawing at him for staying out late. So Smith put it in the back of his mind, and occupied himself in other tasks.

In the next few weeks, he split his time. Unwillingly helping Trott and the others for the party during the day, and going out during the night. There was a twinge of hesitance when he left the house each evening, running before Trott could rope him into doing more work.

Each morning he'd wake completely fine, well-slept, and satisfied in their bed. The thirst to kill was...muted, somewhat. He only knew he killed by the taste in his mouth in the morning and the smell of his clothes from the day before. Despite this, the drive still called him to the clubs each night like the current in the river. Smith wasn’t sure if he minded all that much, but disturbingly enough the amount he couldn’t remember was _increasing_.

Trott had shoved him out of bed the night prior to the party, because Smith had tried to climb in still soaking wet from a kill. The only indication to Smith of his night out was Sips jokingly asking how he slept the next morning, and if the floor had been comfortable enough for him.

Smith didn’t actually remember getting home, or Trott pushing him off the bed, but he could infer what he’d done by the stench of his clothes and the fact that he had woken up with his face in a pile of dirty laundry.

“Slept like a baby.” Smith snapped sarcastically at the mortal king. “Didn’t have to put up with your clammy feet on my back, it was _lovely_.” He’d left Sips in the living room to watch his professional bowling league tournament, and went to the kitchen to rifle through the fridge for something to eat.

The lapses in memory twitched at Smith’s attention. He’d lost track of how often it had happened. The gaps of what he should know were starting to make him anxious, because something was definitely wrong if things were getting progressively emptier.

But fuck it, tonight was a party, and hell if Smith was going to let that spoil his mood.

Once the celebrations wound down and Trott settled his party-planning nerves, Smith would mention it. If the nights still eluded him when the morning came, maybe he’d ask Ross how much he drank and if he acted any differently.

Where Smith was concerned, as long as he was sated, safe, and well-rested the next morning it shouldn’t matter all that terribly. Why should he worry over things he can’t remember, if he can’t even remember if what he was doing was good or bad?

It couldn’t be the worst thing imaginable. Smith was predictable. Drive out to some club or bar, dance with some pour soul and charm them, then get them into his car and drown them. He’d end the night by dropping the body in the river and going home like he did every time before. 

Everything was probably fine, just as it had always been. What could possibly go wrong?

For tonight, Smith would just assume the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it wasn't explicitly stated, but yes: Nano is the Norn.  
> She doesn't physically see anything, but she's able to detect auras, energy, and magic. Her powers of divination are a rush of these, which she interprets. Positive, negative, and neutral actions and persons.
> 
> Smith at the beginning:  
> http://yogcities.tumblr.com/post/114483674208  
> Nano rings:  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/114482709833
> 
> neon signs:  
> there was a link to a pair of lips neon sign too, but the link broke.  
> Eternity- https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/ec/bb/b9/ecbbb97bf621f93b3b0e865a5fee2852.jpg
> 
> The Paradox, by Paul Laurence Dunbar  
> for Nano  
> http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/185887
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/125002106841  
> Smith strip club


	3. some sweet oblivious antidote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to tag as much as I can, just to be sure.  
> chp 3 cws: fighting, violence, threats of violence, mentions of/allusions to past abuse (physical/emotional), altered mental state, mention of knives, mention of blood, one use of a gendered slur?  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> spotify playlist, Guilt and Memory: https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5FJUeTPUSpi0EB1M9iPkMw  
> songs for this chapter (in order):  
> Panic Station- Muse  
> I’m Only Joking- KONGOS (such a Garbage Court party song, fits into fic at the chanting the lyrics bit)  
> Meltdown- Stromae (fits in at the hands all over bit)  
> and I’d listen to what I think is the better version of Meltdown,  
> slowed down and rather sexy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FRdWfaFgSc
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/
> 
> http://eatsleepraverrepeat.tumblr.com/post/133254892774/eat-sleep-rave-repeat  
> the GC party

The venue this time was the abandoned factory the trio of fae had found earlier that month. A demo crew had taken out the assembly lines and rusted machinery, and someone had been hired to repave the concrete floor. The skylight in the ceiling had also been fixed to match the rest of the glass. A DJ was set up on the far side of the building across from the mezzanine, with newly added neon lights swinging colored patterns, and the bar was on the opposite side under the stairs.

Sips watches the lights flash through the window of the foreman’s office. The walls shake with the beat of the music, muffled just enough that he can hear Trott making a conference call.

One of their liquor suppliers had dropped out at the last minute, and Trott was making phone calls to see who would pick up the slack.

Tapping his feet with the beat of the music, Sips watches Trott pace the room.

“At least three dozen more cases.” Trott gives the address and a terse threat and hangs up. He turns to Sips and gives a sigh.

Sips shrugs and smiles sympathetically.

There’s a knock at the door. Both the mortal and the selkie flinch as it opens and a rush of Smith’s charm magic hits them. Ross stumbles inside and closes the door behind him, sealing the magic out.

“The fuck?” Trott stammers. “The hell was that?”

Ross looks dazed. Traces of Smith’s magic hang off of him, and Trott casts a quick spell to rid him of it. Immediately the gargoyle’s posture improves, but his worried face doesn’t change.

“I think something’s wrong with Smith.” He says, moving closer to Trott and Sips. “The bond, it’s...it’s muddy. I can’t get through the crowd to get to him.”

“Why is there so much charm in the air?” Trott asks, dumbfounded. He walks to the window and looks outside, unable to see anything but a mass of dancing bodies and flashing lights.

It wasn’t unusual that Smith would spread a bit of charm into the party. The gust of magic that rushed in when Ross opened the door, though, was way heavier than normal. “I don’t know.” The gargoyle shifts his weight nervously. “I didn’t realize it at first, but it’s gotten worse. It was hard to even get up here. I can't imagine what's going on his head but...it feels so distorted.”

Sips and Trott share a look, and Trott shakes his head. "He's going to get everyone killed, if it's that bad."

Trott throws open the door of the office and pushes back on Smith’s charm by spreading a magical barrier across the mezzanine. Ross and Sips follow him out, safe behind it, and walk up to the bannister.

“What is he _doing_?” The selkie snarls. “The entire crowd’s going to turn into a mob at this rate!”

The crowd spanned from each corner of the room, centering on Smith. Bodies were pressed skin-close. With every pound of the bass, the crowd jumped as one unit. Hands were in the air, and voices melded to chant the song the dj was playing. The walls, floor, and mezzanine shook with all the vibrations.

Trott shakes his head from side to side and throws off the waves of magic rolling through the room. It presses back against the barrier he put up, taunting, teasing, tantalizing. It was like syrup, spread thick over the air, undulating with the crowd’s gyrations.

“This has to stop, and it has to stop _now_.” Trott pushes away from the bannister, down the stairs, and into the sea of people.

Ross and Sips watch safely from the mezzanine as Trott pushes his way through the dance floor with anger in his veins. People barely notice when he steps on toes and knocks over drinks to get to Smith. Girls and guys hang off of the kelpie, a pack of reaching hands touching anywhere they can just to be near him. Hands caress his face, his arms, his hair, everywhere. Smith’s bright grin is a spotlight on the center of it all.

Jealousy sinks its claws in Trott next to anger and latches tight.

 _That’s. Mine_.

“Smith!” He has to shout over the music as he physically rips people from the kelpie’s grasp. He forces a magical barrier around the two of them to stop the crowd from touching. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Livin’ it up!” Smith laughs but his eyes are so blown to hell. So dark it’s like a night without stars swallowed up the day. The amount of charm and lust and adrenaline in the air is the probable cause. Trott can feel its call. It rocks against him like the tide, but he pushes it away. Smith sways from side to side, more like he’s drunk than dancing.

“Stop this _right now_ , Smith. You’re using too much, the whole place is going to orgy on the floor!”

“Sounds like a good time. Why don’t you dance with me, Trott?” Smith reaches for his arms but Trott backs away, eyes narrowed.

“Fuck off! Your magic can’t hold this many people for long, and when that charm breaks who knows what kind of destruction we could have on our hands! These gigs get me a large chunk of money to pay our bills, Smith. Not to mention that the parties we throw directly influence the magic levels of the court itself. I take pride in how I orchestrate these; I won’t have you screwing everything up!”

“Shit, mate, I don’t care if the whole place burns. The destruction would be _fantastic_.” Smith moans as some busty blonde woman slides from the crowd to press sultrily up against his back. He eyes her up and down, predator on prey, and gives her a wink that's broken many a heart.

Trott twists his magic with a glare and sends the slut scurrying.

“You know what this will end in, Smith?” He zeros his gaze onto the kelpie. “It’ll end in fucking _death_. And there’s no way you’re going to be able to drown all these people before some realize and run off. Not with your charm spread so widely.”

“Trott, I don’t think it’s about drowning them anymore.” Smith’s eyes shine black with the flare of the lights. “I don’t care how it happens, whether they choke or whether they bleed out on the floor. At the end of the day, all I have to see is the light leave their eyes.” He licks his lips with a breathy chuckle. “Fuck, it all feels so wrong and so right.”

The selkie shakes his head disbelievingly. “You’re out of control, Smith.” He can feel the bile churn in his gut, making him sick.

Smith leans in as if to tell a secret. “I’ve never felt more in control in my life, Trott.” He tips his head back and laughs and the crowd turns to eye him, appreciative. The dancing has slowed to a standstill. All eyes are on them, and even the DJ has turned down the music so he can hear them talking.

“Turn it off, Smith.” Trott argues.

“How about I take my clothes off, I’m sure the crowd would love a show.” He bites his lip and runs his hand down the front of his shirt. Trott smacks his hands away before they reach the fly of his pants.

“I’m going to tell you only one more time, Smith. Last fucking chance.” He grinds the words between his teeth.

“What are you going to do, Trott? I’ll have you know I’ll do what I damn please and fucking thank you.” His voice is as smug as it is threatening.

“Don’t think that because I care about you I won’t beat the shit out of you, _sunshine_.” Trott sneers. He’s itching for his knife but he keeps his fingers clenched in fists. It’s not worth it.

Smith's eyes notice the twitch in Trott's wrists. “What, are you going to rip me apart with those fucking knives of yours, Trotty?” He says between his teeth. “Make me bleed out onto the floor, and-”

There’s a sharp crack as Trott’s fist connects with his jaw. Smith staggers back a few steps, startled.

The crowd moves farther away from the pair. The voices churn and bubble up from alcohol-lacquered throats, not daring to murmur too loudly and draw unwanted attention.

“Oh so that’s how it’s going to be?” Smith winces through a smile with no humor in it. “Go on. Hit me again. I fucking dare you.”

Trott does, right in the jaw again, and Smith reels back as the crowd moans. This time the smile is gone and the kelpie spits blood onto the floor.

“Hit me again, you fucker.” Voice laced with venom.

This time he catches Trott’s punch but not the kick to his gut that doubles him over. Nor the one to his shins. After that, his knees hit the floor.

“ _Shut the fuck up, Smith_.” Trott sing-songs with no hint of a kindness in his tone. He knocks Smith down with another swift kick, shoves his shoulders and pins him to the floor. Smith grapples at Trott’s arms, digging his nails into the skin, but Trott knees him harder. Though the selkie was smaller, he was quicker. With Smith’s state as it was, it was easier to get the upper hand.

“You’re a fucking ass.” The kelpie seethes as Trott pins his hands.

The selkie cackles, a sound like peach pits and snake venom. “Don’t you ever look in mirrors?” He hisses, teeth bared. “You should watch what you say lest you become what you _hate_.”

Smith barks a laugh. “All this talk of mirrors from the selkie prince. Just like them, aren’t you?”

Trott’s next punch slams Smith’s head to the ground and everyone watching lets out a collective wince at the crack.

“Going to beat the shit out of me, Trott?” Smith asks raspily as he coughs. “Going to- do to me like what they did to you?”

Trott punches him again.

“How are you...any fucking different?” Smith wheezes.

Up on the mezzanine, Sips flinches and looks away as Trott keeps punching.

Ross doesn’t want to watch, feeling a churning in his gut. Yet his eyes can’t move from the scene on the floor between Smith and Trott. It’s so painful to watch, and he wants to jump off the balcony and do something. Anything. His hands twist so hard on the bannister that it snaps in his hands and Sips jumps at the sound.

He mutters his apology and curls his tail around the mortal king’s arm.

They can’t do a single thing but watch and wait.

After another couple of hits, Trott stops and fists his hand in the collar of Smith’s shirt. He drags the kelpie’s bruised face closer until their faces are centimeters apart.

“Why don’t you _listen_ when I tell you to?” Trott grinds out between his teeth.

Smith’s eyes are still blown wide but the magic in the air is sinking fast, as is his consciousness. “You’re go’ing to...regret this.” He slurs, mouth stained red.

“No. I’ll make you regret it more.” Trott whispers with a fierceness in his gaze. He casts the most powerful sleeping spell he knows and loosens his grip. Smith slumps back to the floor unconscious with a thump.

“Shit.” Sips whispers. His hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around the bannister.

Ross doesn’t have any words, he just feels like throwing up.

The rest of the venue is silent as Trott stands, looking murderous. The magic leaves the air like water down a drain.

“Party’s over.” He says darkly.

Like a balloon being popped, the crowd lurches away from Trott and Smith. A few people scream. Many scramble for the door, trampling anyone in their way. The air is hot and congested and slightly uneasy.

They’ve never seen the place empty out quicker. Ross and Sips make their way down the stairs to the scene of the fight. Smith’s lip is split and blood red and he’s going to have a nasty set of bruises and a sore jaw come morning.

Trott pats down Smith’s jacket until he finds his keys, and pockets them with a grimace. His face is pinched and Ross isn’t sure if he’s going to scream or going to cry.

“Trott?” Ross whispers gently, trying to catch his eye.

The selkie turns away and walks towards the exit, head bowed.

“Carry him, Ross.” Trott mutters brokenly, shoulders hunched. “I’ll start the car.”


	4. when the battle's lost and won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 4 cws: injuries, mentions of blood, mentions of past abuse, memory loss  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> spotify playlist, Guilt and Memory: https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5FJUeTPUSpi0EB1M9iPkMw  
> songs for this chapter:  
> Sea Fog- Keane  
> Forget About What I Said- The Killers
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/

Fog. It comes from the ocean when the nights are cold and sinks into the city. Giant’s breath settling around the towering buildings.

Trott drives silently. His hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The clacking windshield wipers are the only sound as he drives along the slickened streets.

Sips eyes don’t move from Trott, seeing the twitches in his face flickering between anger, disgust, and sadness.

It’s only when they stop at a red light that Trott looks up in the rear view mirror. He glimpses Smith laying in Ross’ lap in the backseat of the car. Fluorescent light cascades in rays across Smith’s bruised, bloodied, swollen and battered face.

The selkie doubles over so fast it’s as if his spine snapped in half. He hides his face in his hands. His shoulders shake and heave but the only sound is of unsteady breaths.

Sips puts the car in park and leans across the gearshift to turn the engine off. The windshield wipers squeak as they slide back into place. A puttering sigh rises from the heart of the car and the Garbage Court are left with its occasional tick to make time with Trott’s stuttered breathing.

“I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have-” Trott whispers like the words are scalding his throat.

The material of Sips’ seat belt buzzes against the frame of the car as he unbuckles it. The mortal king slides as close as he can to Trott before extending a gentle hand to rest on his shoulder.

Trott sucks in a breath and shivers as Sips’ thumb strokes back and forth. “I shouldn’t have done that. I should have- I should have _stopped_. Why _didn’t_ I?” His shoulders continue to shake under Sips’ hand. “Why didn’t I _stop_...”

Ross frets from the back seat, too far away from Trott to comfort him. Smith is heavy in his arms, and he doesn’t want to move the kelpie in fear of hurting him further. His stone hands trace patterns on Smith’s hips instead, and his tail digs at a hole in one of the carpets. He purses his lips as he watches Trott sob so silently he shakes with the effort to keep it all in.

“Fucking _shit. Why_? Fucking why, _how could I_ -” He lets out a series of choked off sounds and half a whimper. “He’s right. He’s _right_ , I’m just like them.”

“No.” Ross speaks up from the back of the car.

“Yes-”

“ _No_.” The gargoyle and the mortal king chorus.

“How do you know?” Trott snaps, voice rising. “How do you know I’m not-”

“Because you’re sitting at a traffic light crying over it.” Sips said.

The light had changed from green to red and back again in the time they had been sitting here. The fog was as present as ever.

The selkie turns his face away even further and smashes his fist onto the dashboard. He lets out a hiss between his teeth. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Sips agrees. He closes his eyes when Trott’s fist slams onto the dashboard again.

“There’s no excusing- who am I to-” Trott yells between his teeth. “How am I any different from them, _how_?”

The mortal king takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. He removes his hand from Trott’s shoulder and takes Trott’s off the dashboard. His fingers are feather-light as they pry Trott’s fist apart. He wipes away the last few traces of Smith’s blood that hid in the lines of his knuckles. When it’s gone, he raises Trott’s hand to his cheek.

Trott twists in his seat. His hair hides his face as his body turns towards Sips.

“What are you doing?” He asks brokenly.

“I’m telling you that you’re _not them_.”

“I-”

“ _No_.” The gargoyle and the mortal king chorus again.

Sips clears his throat before speaking. “I’m telling you, _you_ are _not them_.” He enunciates each word clearly and succinctly and holds Trott’s hand to his cheek. “I don’t know why Smiffy said what he did. It wasn’t right, in both meanings of the word. I know that beating the shit out of him wasn’t the answer, but we have bigger problems if Smith’s getting high off his charm like that.”

Trott’s hand trembles in his grip.

“No matter how much I say otherwise, what Smith said tonight is going to bother you. I know that, but it doesn’t mean I’m not gonna remind you when I can that it’s not true.

“ _You_ are not _them_. You never will be. You care too damn much...” Sips kisses the top of Trott’s hand and lowers it back to his lap.. “...and you hurt yourself too much for all our sakes. No one’s asking you to be perfect here. No one’s asking you to disregard your past completely without getting through the painful shit. We’re going to love you whether you change or whether you stay the same. That goes for you, and that goes for Smith.”

Sips hears Trott suck in a breath but cuts him off before he can say something.

“Trott, we’re all a bunch of second-chance fuck-ups. But dammit-all if I’m going to let that stop us from living. We're taking everything we can get, regardless of whether we deserve it or not. We're not ghosts of our past selves, we're not our parents, and we're not our enemies. _You_ are not _them_."

Sips lapses into silence, and he and Ross watch Trott carefully.

Trott slowly laces his fingers with Sips’ and finally looks up to meet his eyes.

“Okay?” Sips asks.

Trott shakes his head no, and looks over at Ross and Smith. “I don’t know...” He whispers, the words hardly audible.

Sips nods. If that was how it was going to be for the time being, that was understandable. Things like this don’t change immediately. It’s a process.

“Sips? Would you mind driving?” Trott’s eyes leave the backseat to look at Sips again.

Sips squeezes Trott’s hand reassuringly. “Not at all.”

They switch places, and Trott climbs into the back to sit on the other side of Ross, who pulls him close the minute he’s within reach. The selkie allows himself to be held, and Ross’ hand threads through his hair comfortingly as Trott buries his face in Ross’ neck.

Sips adjusts the rear view mirror. Ross’ eyes lock with his when the gargoyle looks up, and they share a look full of all the things left unsaid. But the moment passes and both look away, Ross to the water fae in his arms and Sips to the road and the fog rolling down it.

The mortal king sighs and starts the car.

  
  


* * *

  


Smith wakes to a terrible pain in his head. There’s a throbbing in his temples and his jaw feels like it’s been throttled. He can tell that one of his eyes and one side of his face is swollen. Everything aches.

“ _Fuck_...” He whispers.

“Smith?”

He peeks his eyes open one at a time to find himself in bed, head propped up with pillows, with Ross at his side. “...Ross?”

“How’re you feeling?” The gargoyle looks at him worriedly, tail making scraping sounds as it moves back and forth over the wood flooring.

“I feel like shit...what happened?” He asks slowly. “Why does my face feel like it got run over?”

Ross frowns. “Because Trott beat the shit out of you, mate. Don’t you remember?”

Smith’s eyes widen with concern. “What? Why?”

Ross purses his lips together. “You should know why.”

Smith struggles with his words and winces when his split lit breaks open. “What do you mean, I should know?” He racks his brain for information, but comes up empty. He doesn’t remember Trott fighting him. The only thing he can remember is walking into the abandoned factory. The rest...is disturbingly blank.

“Ross.”

“What?” Ross asks, weighing the word on his tongue.

“Ross, I...I don’t remember.” Smith swallows thickly. “I don’t remember what happened.”

The gargoyle’s brow furrows and those blue eyes look up at him with a pained worry. “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I-” Smith takes a deep breath. “The last thing I remember was walking into the factory. I pushed open the door...and then nothing. I don’t remember what happened after that.” The kelpie shakes his head and then winces loudly at the pain it causes. He closes his eyes until the wave of pain passes and then opens them again to meet Ross’ gaze.

“You have to believe me, Ross.” Smith pleads. “I don’t remember last night. It’s all blank.”

Ross frowns. “There’s no reason for you _not_ to remember. I mean...Trott hit you pretty hard, but...you don’t remember anything after you walked in the door?”

“I don’t. I don’t know why, I-” Smith reaches out and curls his shaking fingers around Ross’ wrist. “The most recent thing in my memory is waking up here.” His eyes dart about the room and his voice shakes as he speaks. “I don’t understand. This happened before- when I couldn’t recall where I’ve been. It kept happening and I ignored it like an idiot and now _this_ -” His anger at himself only makes the pain in his jaw throb harder. “ _Why am I forgetting_?” Smith groans lightly through his teeth.

Ross shakes his head and bites the inside of his lip nervously. “I knew something wasn’t right, Smith. I knew something was wrong, I could feel it.”

“What happened?” Smith whispers. “Why did Trott...”

“Not long after the party started, Trott, Sips and I lost you to the crowd. We weren’t too concerned until later that night.” Ross turns his wrist in Smith’s hand so he can loosely interlock their fingers. “You were...it was like you were drunk or high or something. I could feel it in the bond, it was-” Ross sighs and traces patterns on Smith’s palm. “It was like it was water-logged; syrupy and thick. The whole place was vibrating with your charm.”

“Vibrating?”

“You were so out of it, mate...” The gargoyle whispers. “Your eyes were blown out like black holes. The charm magic was so strong Trott had to put up a barrier around me and Sips. He went down to tell you to knock it off, because...much longer with your magic spread out like that and the crowd could have turned into a mob.”

Smith clenches his jaw tightly in anger, and immediately regrets it. A string of agonized groans escapes his mouth as the nerves in his jaw screech at him, white-hot and painful.

“Here. Trott said this would help.” Ross snatches a mug off the side table and lifts it to Smith’s lips. “I forgot it was sitting here, sorry.”

The liquid is burning hot as Smith drinks, a strange sensation because the mug is cool against his lips. He coughs as it scalds his throat and grimaces at the taste. Like gasoline and cherry syrup, and absolutely vile.

Smith tries to avoid clenching his jaw again, but he can’t help the anger brewing at the back of his mind like a desert storm. _Why can’t I remember?_

“I don’t understand.” Smith mumbles more to himself than to Ross. “It’s like before, and I don’t understand.”

The newest blank spot in his memory adds to his collection of forgotten nights. He’s mad at himself for so many reasons, but he’s also grappling for answers.

From what Ross had said, he had lost himself in the charm. Gotten swept up in the adrenaline. It’s not surprising but it scares him because _he can’t remember_.

 _What else have I done that I can’t remember_. Smith thinks, blinking his eyes in the light of the bedroom. _How long has this really been going on, these memories just disappearing?_

_What fresh hell have I caused that’s going to bite me in the ass later?_

And then there was the matter of Trott. Smith struggles not to clench his teeth again. Why did he beat the shit out of him?

_I must have done something._

There was no way Trott would have...unless Smith said or did something to deserve it. It wasn’t the first time Smith had stupidly run his mouth and said something out of line. But it was the first time Trott delivered a rebuttal so raw.

His jaw _ached_.

“Ross...” Smith croaks, meeting the gargoyle’s eyes again. “What did I do?”

Ross had been fiddling with the mug, swirling the medicine around and around. He sets the mug back down on the side table, next to Smith’s keys, and takes his hand again. He dances his fingers across the veins at the kelpie’s wrist and takes a deep breath.

“You...said some things. That you really shouldn’t have.”

“What did I say?” Smith’s stomach did twists and flips. What did he do to make Trott so pissed? So pissed enough to beat the shit out of him...

“I can’t repeat it.” Ross replies with a shake of his head.

“Ross.” _It must have been bad._

“Don’t.” Ross protests, taking his hand away. “I can’t.”

“ _Ross, please_.” Smith pleads. “I have to know.”

_What have I done?_

_How could I have fucked up so badly?_

Ross shakes his head. “I know how much it hurt when you said it to Trott. I saw it in his eyes, later. So don’t ask me to repeat it, Smith, I just...” The gargoyle won’t meet Smith’s eyes. “I don’t want to think about it.”

_I’ve fucked up. What did I do? What did I say, dammit?_

_Why can’t I remember? What am I forgetting?_

Smith lets out a shaky breath. He squeezes his eyes shut but it doesn’t help the pressure in his head or the swelling in his face. “Where _is_ Trott?” He asks.

“I think he’s with Sips. They should be awake.” Ross looks towards the door and then back towards Smith. His eyes scan over Smith’s face. The bruises are a dark blue-black, all along his jaw and cheekbone. His face is swollen slightly and one eye is barely open, bruising around it in a ring.

 _I’m surprised Trott hasn’t come in yet to yell at me,_ Smith thinks. _He must be absolutely livid_.

The bond Smith shared with the selkie ached, too. Down by his stomach, Smith could feel an actual bruise, but inside, underneath, the magic there felt dented. Of course the bond would start having effects when he’d screwed up...

“Do you really not remember?” Ross asks quietly.

Smith swallows thickly. “I really don’t. Not last night...not previous nights.” The kelpie looks away and back again. “I really fucked up, Ross. I really fucked up and I don’t know...anything.”

Smith’s eyes look so lost, so confused. For a minute, Ross thinks he’s seen that look before. Maybe not in Smith, but he’s seen it before somewhere.

“Since when has your memory been so shoddy?” He asks with a frown.

“I don’t know...weeks ago, maybe.” Smith closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “Would you...get Trott for me. If he...wants to see me.”

“Of course.” Ross stands.

“Some ice, too. My face is probably swollen up like a balloon.” Smith smiles slightly.

“Or like Sips’ stomach at a buffet.” Ross adds in.

Smith lets out a weak chuckle but the smile soon slips from his face. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be a few minutes, then.” Ross hands Smith the mug again and helps him drink the rest.

The kelpie grimaces and then cringes at the pain in his face. “Why does medicine always taste so terrible?”

“I don’t know, mate.” Ross brushes hair out of the kelpie’s eyes as carefully as he can and takes back the mug. “Don’t go anywhere.” He teases with a sad smile.

“Not planning on it.” Smith frowns and watches Ross leave the room. The door shuts behind him with an audible click and Smith closes his eyes again. The medicine does seem to be helping. The dull press of pain in his head is dimming, but his thoughts remain the same.

_Why am I forgetting?_

_What am I forgetting?_

_Why can’t I remember?_

The questions loop in his mind like a broken record. Questions he has no answers for, and nothing to link them to.

_Why can’t I remember?_

  
  


* * *

  


“Trott?”

The selkie slept on the couch last night with Sips, and was still laying in the mortal king’s arms when Ross finds them.

“Hey sunshine.” Trott blinks sleepily up at the gargoyle.

Afternoon light filters in through the blinds. Sips is watching tv on low, some nature program about penguins or some shit. He looks up to nod at Ross. Ross nods back and then turns to Trott.

“He wants to see you.”

Trott’s eyes widen. “He’s awake?”

Ross frowns. “Yeah.”

“How is he?” The question is stretched taut with tension.

The gargoyle shrugs. “About as expected.” He bites his lip, thinking. “He did...say something, though.”

Trott’s eyebrows furrow in curiosity. “About what?”

“He said...he didn’t remember.” Ross says slowly. “He doesn’t remember what happened last night.”

There’s a long stretch of silence as all the color drains from Trott’s face.

“ _Oh god_.” His voice drops in decibels. “ _Did I really hit him that hard?_ ”

Ross can’t say anything for a few moments, tongue stuck behind his teeth and a tightness in his chest. But he shakes his head and soon enough the pressure subsides. “I don’t think that’s why he can’t remember. He said ‘it’s like before.’ But I don’t know what he meant by it.”

Trott let out the breath he’d been holding and slumps forward on the couch. “He doesn’t remember?” He asks, appalled, with his head in his hands.

“No. He wanted me to tell him what happened.”

Trott’s head snaps up. “Did you?”

“No.” Ross bites his lip nervously. “I couldn’t.”

The selkie sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“He wants to see me, then?” Trott asks after a pregnant pause.

Ross nods. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see him. I can go keep him company some more, if you’d rather not.”

“No, no, I...” Trott rubs his face with his hands and shakes his head. “I have to go see him.”

“Not if you’re not comfortable enough to.” Sips says, eyes away from the tv and on Trott instead. “He’ll understand if you need more time.”

“No he won’t. Not if he doesn’t remember anything.” Trott protests. “That’ll just make him feel worse.”

Ross shuffles his feet and fiddles with the mug in his hands. “Isn’t that justified?” He asks slowly.

Trott hesitates before speaking. “I don’t know. But...I shouldn’t leave him alone.” He stands up, blanket falling from his shoulders, and takes the mug from Ross’ hands. “Did he drink all the medicine?”

“Yeah. He asked for some ice, too. For his face.”

Trott’s face is pained. “Right.” He says, voice clipped. “I’ll get that.”

Ross watches him go into the kitchen and shares an upset frown with Sips.

The mortal king gestures for Ross to sit between his feet with a faraway look in his eyes. Ross sits down and curls his tail up so Sips can keep ahold of it as they try to watch tv and keep their tired minds off of last night.

  
  


* * *

  


In the kitchen, Trott takes a glass out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. He retrieves an ice pack out of the freezer and places it next to the glass. The coldness of the freezer makes fog billow out the door like smoke. Trott digs around in the ice bucket, thankful that whoever filled the trays last had remembered to empty them once they were frozen. He scoops a handful of ice into his hands and shuts the freezer door with an elbow.

Hovering over the glass, he lets the ice in his hands slide in one by one. He breathes in and out, slowly and steadily while the ice clinks and pops. Water drips from his fingertips.

When the ice is gone from his hands, Trott fills the cup up with tap water and takes respite in the crackling sound of the melting point being reached. He looks down at the glass of ice water and thinks of cold sea kingdoms and darkened halls. He only grimaces more when his eyes land on the ice pack on the counter.

Trott squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear Sips and Ross muttering just above the volume of the tv. Some disturbing thriller movie is on now, complete with a cringe-inducing soundtrack and obviously creepy male love interest. Probably a Hallmark or Lifetime special.

He stands for a few minutes, breathing and listening to the hum of the fridge. When he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, Trott takes the ice pack and the glass of water and goes to see Smith.

  
  


* * *

  


He looks like hell.

Trott stands in the doorway, staring at Smith’s bruised face. He feels so guilty that he thinks about turning and running for a split second, but he steels himself. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he almost feels like he’s going to pass out, but he takes one step forward and then another. Soon enough he’s at the side of the bed where the kelpie lays.

He places the glass of ice water down on the side table where he left Smith’s keys the night before, and gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed. The frosty ice pack in his hands makes his fingers numb. He wants to take Smith’s hand, since it’s outstretched palm-up next to him. But Trott isn’t sure if Smith’s awake, and he doesn’t want to scare him from the sudden cold.

Before he can open his mouth, a pair of familiar mossy green eyes are blinking at him.

“Trott.” Smith mumbles. He sounds somewhere between relieved, pained, and conflicted. Probably all three.

“Hey sunshine.” Trott whispers back.

Smith’s face crumples, lips trembling. “Trott...Trott, I’m sorry.“

“No.” Trott shakes his head. “No, I am.”

“What did I say? What did I do?” Smith asks, gasping the words. “I can’t remember.”

“I shouldn’t have acted how I did.”

“But why-” Smith strains his jaw and lets out a pained cry.

Trott shushes him. He shifts closer and holds the ice pack up to Smith’s cheek. “Easy, sunshine. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Why, Trott, what did I do?” Smith continues, voice panicky. “I don’t remember- you’d never- you never would have if-”

“Shhhh, shhh. Don’t get worked up about it right now. Just take it easy.” Trott strokes Smith’s shoulder with the hand that isn’t holding the ice pack.

Smith licks his split lip. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember a single thing about last night.” He gulps down air, chest heaving.

Trott purses his lips. “Ross said something about that. Something about it happening before?”

“I don’t know. I- I don’t know for how long, or why, I just-” The kelpie sucks in a breath. “There are gaps in my memory, where the nights used to be. It’s been happening for a while now, maybe a week, maybe two. I don’t know.” His eyes dart about the room.

“Weeks? Why didn’t you say something?” Trott sighs.

“I thought...I thought it was just something odd about that week. Maybe I’d been drinking too much.”

“Smith...”

“I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t know how to.” He swallows thickly. “You were already stressed out about the party, and mad at me for coming home late. I didn’t want to push.”

Trott shakes his head. “You can always come talk to me, no matter how stressed I am.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Because if something’s wrong, I want you to tell me so I can try to help.”

“It’s just that...” Smith hesitates.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Smith sighs and watches Trott sadly. “It was my mistake, by not talking to you about it.”

Trott shakes his head. “With you coming home so late and sleeping immediately, I should have known something was wrong.” He switches the ice pack to the other side of Smith’s face, being slow and gentle in his movements so he won’t press too hard on the bruises. “This only confirms it.”

“You remember that night I came home just before dawn,” Smith asks slowly. “And you were pissed and made me sleep on the couch?”

“Yeah.” Trott responds, narrowing his eyes. “That was nearly a month ago, Smith.”

Smith winces as he licks over his split lip again. “I think that was the first time, but I’m not sure.”

Trott frowns. “Why would your memory suddenly be missing? Did you piss someone off, someone from the rival courts or gangs?”

The kelpie looks over at Trott again. “I don’t know.” He murmurs. “I don’t remember any confrontation. I don’t remember if it happened or not.”

Trott sits back in thought. He shifts his grip on the ice pack in his hands and his eyes land on the dreamcatcher that he made. It was still nailed above the headboard of the bed, over the side Smith usually slept on.

“A month ago...” Trott looks back down at Smith. “A month ago you were saying something about having nightmares. Do you still have those?”

Smith stares back at him blankly. “What nightmares?”

Trott opens his mouth and then closes it again, shaking his head and frowning more.

“What nightmares, Trott?” Smith’s eyes were widen in confusion. “I don’t- what do you mean-”

Trott shushes him before he can get himself worked up.

It could be many things. It could be a curse, it could be some witch or even a fae who dealt with memory charms. But regardless of what caused it, there had to be a magical signature left behind.

Trott hums thoughtfully and moves the ice pack from Smith’s face to set it on the side table. He places his free hand on Smith’s chest and feels him shiver at the cold.

“Hold still for a second, sunshine.” The selkie murmurs. “I want to check something.”

He closes his eyes, whispers some words, and feels his magic along Smith’s body.

There it was, obvious now that he could sense it. There was a high concentration of magic on Smith’s lower back.

Lower back: a vulnerable point. Trott frowns further, squeezing his eyes shut tightly to focus. Either whoever did this to Smith managed to tie him down, knock him out, or subdue him somehow...or Smith went willingly.

He feels around a little more but is hit with a small burst of nausea when his magic grazes whatever it is on Smith’s back. He hears Smith gasp and let out a moan, and pulls away, opening his eyes again.

“What was that?” Smith groans.

“Sorry, sunshine. I didn’t know that would happen.” Trott picks up the glass of water that he left on the side table earlier and brings it to Smith’s lips. “Here. Drink.”

“More medicine?” He asks warily.

Trott shakes his head. “Just water this time.”

Smith gulps it down greedily and Trott has to chastise him a little until he takes slower sips.

“You’re going to make yourself sick if you gulp it down like that.”

When he replaces the glass on the side table Smith looks up at Trott tiredly.

“What was that thing?”

Trott takes a deep breath through his nose, tone serious. “You have a magical signature on your back. It didn’t like my magic getting close to it.”

Smith’s eyes widen. “Magic? How?”

“I don’t know. That’s probably the cause of your memory lapses though.” He shifts closer to inspect Smith’s bruises more. “Is the pain any better?” He asks, voice tight.

“Somewhat.” Smith mumbles.

The selkie nods. “I’ll probably have to give you more of that medicine tonight then.”

“But it tastes like shit, Trott.” Smith wrinkles his nose at him in distaste.

“Sorry.” His fingers brush gently against the stained line of bruises, cold and numb to the touch. He makes sure not to press harder, but he whispers a few healing spells to speed up the process, tracing the sigils in the coldness on Smith’s cheeks.

Trott stares into those mossy green eyes and knows his own are equally pained, if not more so. They must all be so tired. especially after last night.

Smith takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out as Trott’s fingers move away from his bruised face.

“About that...magical signature, then.” He starts. “What is it?”

Trott frowns and rubs his eyes. “I couldn’t tell by feeling with my magic. It’s on your lower back, so you’ll have to sit up for me to look at it.”

Smith blinks owlishly at him. “I don’t think I have the energy for that, mate.”

Trott sighs. “I don’t think I have the energy for that either. I want to solve this as soon as possible but...I suppose a nap can’t hurt.”

He tucks the blankets around one side of Smith and crawls into bed beside him, fully dressed with his selkie skin tied around his waist, but too tired to care. Trott curls one arm over Smith’s chest and is careful not to bump their heads.

Smith lazily intertwines his fingers with Trott’s.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles. “For whatever it was I did.”

Trott swallows thickly and hides his face in the pillow. “Go to sleep, sunshine.” He mutters. He kisses Smith’s shoulder and pulls the blankets closer around them to settle down for a nap.

  
  


* * *

  


“Did you ever hear him talk about nightmares over the past few weeks?” Trott asks Sips. After he and Smith had finished napping, Ross had made dinner. The gargoyle was currently sitting with Smith, finishing their meals, while Sips and Trott talked in the kitchen.

“I don’t think so.” Sips says as he adjusts the cap on his head. “I remember the night he came home late in a daze and went promptly to bed. He didn’t even eat any of the pizza we ordered.”

“I think that might have been the start of it.”

“You think he made a deal with someone to stop the nightmares he’d been having?”

“Maybe.” Trott mutters. “I don’t know what to think. He doesn’t remember. All I can do is see if I can learn anything about that signature.”

“Did you tell him? What he said to you last night?”

“No. I’m not doing that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He’s already mortified about his memory. I can’t let him know.”

“And when he does find out? If, when, he gets his memory back? What then?”

“We deal with it when it happens.” The selkie moves closer to the mortal king to lean his head against his shoulder. “Sips...I don’t know how to help him. There’s nothing I can do.”

He sinks himself into the man’s embrace as Sips wraps his arms around him.

“You’ll do what you can, Trott. You’ll figure something out, you always do.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then it’s up to him. The best we can do is stand beside him.”

“I know...I just wish...” Trott sighs. “I don’t know. It’s all rather hopeless, isn’t it?”

Sips says nothing as Trott pulls away to lean up against the counter beside him.

Trott crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything is hopeless.”

“What is?” Ross walks in carrying two empty bowls of food and places them in the sink. “What’s what now?”

“Everything.” Trott pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everything’s hopeless, isn’t it?”

Ross watches Trott confusedly for a few seconds. Then he snorts. “No.”

Both the mortal king and the selkie raise an eyebrow at him.

“No?” Sips asks.

The gargoyle nods.

“You seriously don’t think...” Trott starts.

Ross furrows his brows with a slight smile. “Think what? I don’t think everything’s hopeless, if that’s what you’re asking, Trott.”

Trott blinks back at him.

“ _Okay_ then.” Sips drawls. He scoots past the two of them to grab a beer from the fridge. Ross raises his tail for Sips to pop the cap off and smiles as the mortal king heads towards the bedroom.

“You guys have a good talk, I’m gonna shoot the shit with Smiffy.”

When he hears the bedroom door shut, Ross turns back to Trott. “You think everything is hopeless?” He asks with confusion and worry in his voice.

Trott takes a deep breath. “I just...” He shakes his head and restarts. “I don’t know. How can you not?” He slouches more but his back bites into the counter behind him so he stands up straighter with a grumble.

Ross shrugs, scuffing his foot along the floor as he shifts closer to the selkie. “I don’t know.” He says quietly. “I think...well, I think that not everything is lost. Or that...if everything is lost, then it’s not always lost.” There’s a far-away look in Ross’ eyes as he speaks. Trott can almost see the steeples of a church reflected in the blue of his eyes.

“I’ve always thought there was hope.” Ross continues, looking at Trott once again. “Hope for what, I didn’t know, but I’ve never thought that nothing was worth living for. Being in a church, belonging to one, for a good portion of time- you have a very strong sense of community.”

“A community that left you, Ross. How can that inspire hope?” Trott’s tone is bitter.

The gargoyle shakes his head. “Let me try again.” He taps his tail against the floor until he gets his words straight, staring at the scuffs in the linoleum. When he finds what he wants to say, he gives a nod and looks back up at Trott again.

“I don’t think everything is hopeless, because if it was I never would have met you.”

The weight of the words are like a punch in the gut, and Trott looks away. He watches Ross’ tail where it scuffs at the floor.

“Trott...” Ross steps closer to him until he can cup Trott’s face in his hands. “I know our story can’t have a happy ending. But not everything is hopeless. It’s really not.”

The selkie’s eyes are shining, wet like the sea on a cloudy day. They flutter closed when Ross presses a kiss to his lips. Trott wrings his hands in Ross’ shirt and buries his face in the gargoyle’s neck when the kiss breaks. A kiss so full of love and emotion that Trott wonders why something so pure would fall for deeds so foul. And like for everything else, he doesn’t have an answer.

  
  


* * *

  


“Alright there, sunshine?” Trott asks as he and Ross join Smith and Sips in the bedroom. Smith looks to be in a little bit of a better mood, but still just as weary. “I think we’ll help you sit up for a minute so I can take a look at your back, then get you some more medicine and you can sleep again.”

“Okay.” Smith gives him a small exhausted smile.

They help him sit up. Smith takes Sips’ arm for support with Ross’ strong hands on his upper back. Trott climbs onto the bed and shifts the pillows around until he can kneel behind Smith.

He smooths his hands along the planes of the kelpie’s shoulders before lifting up the bottom of his t-shirt.

At the small of Smith’s back is a dark purple mark in a swirly sort of star pattern, surrounding a sigil he doesn’t recognize. Trott’s free hand reaches out towards it, slowly, testing. He can feel heat radiating off of it, hotter than Smith’s bare skin.

_How did I not notice this before?_

Smith had been coming home later every night, the last of the four of the Garbage Court to get into bed. If they had noticed, if they had seen something, maybe they could have stopped this earlier.

Trott shakes his head and sighs. No use in thinking of “what-if” scenarios. He bares down a little harder and presses his hand up against the mark

A bright bolt of pain ripples through his arm, and he recoils back with a yelp. He has to blink bright spots from his vision as a small wave of dizziness hits him. Smith lets out a pained groan and Trott rubs his shoulder again, apologizing quietly. He takes out his phone and takes a picture of the sigil.

Something magical indeed, and something powerful if he couldn’t touch it without hurting himself or Smith. The selkie helps Smith lay back down again. Whatever the magic was, it didn’t bode well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121431340567/sicsen-glow-blog  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/116432018925  
> city at night  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/115690908440
> 
> First Witch:  
> “When shall we three meet again  
> In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”  
> Second Witch:  
> “When the hurlyburly’s done,  
> When the battle’s lost and won.”  
> Third Witch:  
> “That will be ere the set of sun.”
> 
> “Fair is foul, and foul is fair:  
> Hover through the fog and filthy air.”  
> -Act 1 Scene 1 Macbeth


	5. fair is foul, and foul is fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags have updated again, double check them. trying to tag as much as I can, just to be sure. I’d rather over-tag than under-tag.  
> chp 5 cws: smoking, injuries, fighting, violence, gore, blood, knives, dead bodies, ghosts/spectres; mentions of past abuse, physical and psychological, and emotional manipulation  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> also, sorry that this is getting up four hours later than when it normally does. I overslept and still had to format this.  
> so, because of that and because it’ll free up my weekend, how about I post the last chapter tomorrow? yeah? okay. hopefully I don’t forget lol.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> spotify playlist, Guilt and Memory: https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5FJUeTPUSpi0EB1M9iPkMw  
> songs for this chapter, for Trott:  
> Heaven or Hell- Digital Daggers  
> The Struggle Within- Metallica  
> The Unforgiven- Metallica (this one, just. the feels, right here.)
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/

The Crooked Caber is a well-lit pub in the midst of the Juror’s District. The wood smells of varnish and the air smells of hops and vinegar. Glass lanterns hang from the ceiling at different heights, basking the exposed brick, copper pipes, and worn concrete floor in a warm yellow glow. The place is relatively empty for lunch-hour. A few groups of patrons are dotted here and there among the tables, dressed in garb befitting the industry workers in the area.

Trott steps inside easily enough, the wards welcoming him because of a pub being a public venue. The bartender at the back, however, notices straight away. A vampire by the name of Ravs picks up on the salt-water magic of Trott’s skin with his sharp senses. Dark eyes critique Trott suspiciously as the selkie walks up to the wooden counter.

“Th’ fuck do you want, hm?” Ravs asks in his characteristic Scottish accent. “I don’t want your trouble here, selkie.”

“Is the Endermage here?” Trott asks back calmly. “My business is with him.”

Ravs nods towards the wrought-iron staircase to the right of the room, leading to the upper floor and more private seating. “He’s upstairs. You cause any ill will to my patrons...” There’s a glint of fangs when he snarls and jerks his thumb behind him. “And I’ll feed your guts to the squids.”

Trott raises an eye at the raised glass display tank behind the barman. There’s a large purple squid swimming about. He humors Ravs with a slow nod and heads for the upper floor, and makes no comment about where he was from, squids fed their troublemakers to him.

Ever since Smith tried to pull from the bar one night, Ravs had his guard up. He told Smith off and threw him out, and Rythian’s protection over the place made sure that the Garbage Court wouldn’t contest that. Both parties tended to stay out of each other’s way- the Garbage Court didn’t want to anger a dragon, and Ravs didn’t want the trouble of the Garbage Court to taint his bar.

But the dragon, Rythian, was known as the Endermage, and possessed magic belonging only to his kind. He was a skilled alchemist with valuable magical knowledge that he had hoarded, among other things, for centuries. For this reason, and his status as a neutral party, Trott wanted his opinion.

The Endermage in question is sitting at a tall table near the stairs, up against the wall on the second floor. He has a mug of the Caber’s signature drink in front of him, and is lifting it towards his bandana-covered mouth when Trott approaches.

“How can you drink that squid piss?” Trott grimaces in disgust as he takes a seat on a rickety stool across from Rythian.

The Endermage sets his drink down with a barely suppressed sigh. “What can I help you with, selkie? As I presume you’re not here to chat about the drinks Ravs serves.”

“What do you know of magical sigils?” Trott reaches into his jacket to pull out his phone.

Rythian eyes Trott carefully. “It isn’t my magic, I can tell you that right away.”

“I haven’t even shown you anything.” Trott scoffs, scooting his barstool closer to the table.

Rythian’s eyebrow raises and he hums when Trott shows him the picture of the mark on Smith’s back. “Impressive.”

“What is it?”

Rythian takes the phone from Trott to squint and tilt it in the light. “The runes say witchery but that’s without a doubt flux.”

“ _Flux_?” Trott’s eyes widen. “You’ve got to be joking.” Flux was a bi-product of magic gone wrong. It had deadly power with terrible side-effects.

Rythian nods and hands back the phone. “That purple swirl of magic? That’s thaumcraft.”

Thaumcraft was known for being a finicky and potent school of wizardry. If used incorrectly, it created flux- a thick, viscous liquid with a penchant for corrupting anything in its path. It was dark and powerful, and few people in the city had succeeded in the thaumic arts where many had failed.

Trott heaves a tension-filled sigh. “You’re sure it’s thaumic? What with the runes and all?” He leans back on his bar-stool only to flinch at the wobble and right himself again.

“Yes. I’ve seen flux, and that’s no different. The coloring is the same.” The Endermage pulls the purple bandana covering the lower half of his face down far enough to take a drink and replaces it again. “You may have suspected me at first what with all the purple I wear and such, but my magic isn’t tangible like flux. As for the runes...I can’t tell what they are. They could be witchery but that would mean someone was mixing magics.”

Mixing magics...talk about asking for trouble.

Rythian’s gaze hardens over, and his next words are said with caution. “Whatever these runes are...they can’t be good. There’s only one person I know who might be able to give you an answer. For all I know, she could be the cause of it. And if she decides not to help you...”

“Who?” The selkie asks tersely, with eyes ablaze.

“The Flux Queen herself, the Norn.”

 

* * *

 

Of course. Of course Smith went to the Norn. You don't find her shop on accident. The only way you get there is if you're going intentionally.

Trott rocks from side to side as the railcar he is in speeds through the city. The rail system is elevated, tucking close to the skyscrapers of the business district, and has depots only as far as the edges of the Juror’s District. If he isn’t going shopping or to work, and he is on his own, Trott takes the rail system. It’s quick and efficient if you’re going from the South side of the river to the East side, but it’s not the smoothest method of transportation.

The railcar shakes as it trundles down the tracks. Trott feels slightly sick. His palms are sweaty as he clings to the safety straps hanging from the ceiling. The air is stuffy with bodies crammed in every possible space they can stand, reeking of cologne, perfume, and body odor. The interior of the railcar is covered in advertisements and the floor is littered in trash.

Trott ignores all of it. The headphones in his ears play Metallica loud enough to block out the conversations of the people around him, but not loud enough to block out the intercom of the railcar’s robotic announcer.

As the heavy metal guitars grind dark rhythms into his ears, Trott grapples with his guilt and anger. He struggles to keep his eyes open. The last two nights of sleep had been restless, and Trott couldn’t let himself relax until he fixed things from the aftermath of the party.

He should have realized what was wrong sooner. He couldn’t help but rerun the entire scenario from beginning to end, and take back what he did. But it was no use to think of what-ifs and could-have-beens. No matter how much Trott wondered what he could have done or said to make things different, what happened was in the past. He could do nothing to change it.

Why didn't Smith come to him about his memory before? Why was he so desperate that he went to the Norn? Was Trott that unapproachable when stressed? Was he really so quick to anger under pressure?

The selkie winces as the train screeches metallically and careens around a corner. There’s a headache throbbing at his temples, but he doesn’t want to risk trying to get something out of his bag at a stop and falling over when the railcar lurches forward again.

Trott knows he has the tendency to lash out when his court is threatened. Especially if he’s protecting them from themselves. It’s a hair trigger reflex, and it comes from how he was raised.

_Just like them, aren’t you._

Smith’s words repeat over and over. Trott can’t help but believe him. He knows he should take Sips' words to heart instead, but it's hard to remember when he and Ross aren't here. It’s hard to think the words lie when he proved them true that night.

Trott shifts his grip on the safety handles hanging from the ceiling and rubs at the soreness in his chest.

_Fuck_.

The bond between Smith and him felt like heartburn. He wasn’t surprised it had started showing potential now. Bonds were supposed to become useful in times of struggle. But Smith didn’t trust him enough. He put his trust in the Norn more than his trust in Trott. Even with the bond, he was still prone to recklessness and uncertainty, and Trott wondered if it had done any good at all.

He had to fix things. How could Smith ever trust him again, after what he’d done? Trott had to make up for the pain he caused. He had to wash away the debt and make things right.

The railcar comes to a shaky standstill, and the bland robotic voice announces the neighborhood over the intercom.

_This is the stop._ Trott thinks distractedly, following his gut instinct. He exits the railcar and leans up against the brick wall of the station to regain his balance. It feels like the sidewalk is moving under his feet, and it takes a few minutes for him to re-adjust to solid ground.

He digs through his bag for water and ibuprofen; swallows down two small pills quickly. It’s a human thing, but he finds it’s sometimes easier to take than magical painkillers. It also makes him seem more normal to mortal eyes.

The magic nudges him northward, up the street, and Trott lets it lead him. It’s as if he’s being pulled by a string to his destination.

The shop is a small place, with dark brown siding and ivy crawling up the sides. There are two neon signs in the window: _Eternity, charms and trinkets_ , in blue, and a pink pair of lips. The flower box below the sill is growing plants used in witchery.

Rythian’s comment about mixing magics makes Trott frown at the building in distaste. He takes a deep breath to settle himself and steps inside with determination.

Shelves of witchery merchandise line the walls. Around the corner is a check-out counter and two tables with an assortment of ceramic and glass items. The chill of the shop draws goosebumps on Trott’s skin. The cold wouldn’t normally bother him, but he can sense the magic in the air, keeping the room as quiet as possible. It’s interesting magic, and he’d love to pry at it and see how it works, but that’s not what he’s here for.

Trott’s shoes squeak on the wooden floor as he walks past the counter and through the beaded curtain. The Norn is standing at a worktable to the left of her altar. She's not much shorter than him, which surprises him slightly. She’s dressed in a long, billowy wine-colored dress with golden roses embroidered in the fabric. Her long black hair has a loose braid down the middle.

The Norn doesn’t look at him, though there is no doubt that she knows he’s here. Trott clears his throat to get her attention, and she giggles.

“So the selkie comes to visit at last.” She drawls, chopping ingredients and adding them to a bubbling cauldron. The sound of the knife on the cutting board is silent but the brew in the cauldron boils away loudly. The purple flux staining her arms matches the color of the sigil on Smith's back.

“How is your little kelpie? Sore?” The Norn asks, guessing Trott’s thoughts. She hums the theme tune to a popular kids show about magical horses and Trott growls in annoyance.

“Come now, you didn’t stop by just to chat.” She laughs, sprinkling the chopped herbs into the brew. “Tell me what it is you desire.”

“You know it already, witch.” Trott snaps impatiently. “Just tell me what you want in exchange.” He didn’t have time for this. The sooner he got out of this shop, the better.

The Norn grins and sets her athane down beside the cauldron. “For his nightmares, I took his memories. For his memories to be returned, bring me the heart of a demon.”

“A demon heart?” He asks skeptically. “Why that in particular?”

“You can never have too many demon hearts, you know.” She says matter-of-factly, stirring the cauldron with a silver spoon and avoiding the specifics of the question. Clouds of smoke bubble over the sides of the cauldron and vanish into the messy countertop.

Trott crosses his arms over his chest. “Any demon in particular?”

“Oh, any kind should suffice.” She hums.

Trott nods slowly. This seemed too quick and easy of an exchange. “Is that all?”

The Norn takes up her knife again and starts chopping some other ingredients. “That will suffice, yes. Heart for a heart, after all.” He can hear the smirk in her voice. “Have a nice trip.”

The last comment is a dismissal, but Trott stands there for a few more moments, speculating about what she said.

The Norn says nothing more. She pretends like he doesn’t exist and hums broken songs to herself as she brews.

Trott narrows his eyes at her back, glaring. He unfolds his arms and turns to leave. “I’ll be back, then.” He says, voice tinged with distrust.

The Norn chuckles, crushing flower petals over the bubbling cauldron. “Oh, believe me...I know.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re telling me you want to open a portal to hell?” Tom Angor shakes his head and sighs before levelling his gaze. “ _Why_ exactly?”

“It’s for the Norn.”

The fallen angel raises an eyebrow. “Really? And what do you want from the Norn?” He takes a drag of his cigarette.

“It’s not what I want, it’s what she wants.”

Angor laughs darkly. “It’s never about what she wants, it’s about what you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask-”

“Verbal, non-verbal, agreements or debts. Regardless of what is said or unsaid, the Norn knows your fate.”

Trott shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. She wants a demon heart in exchange.”

“Demon heart...tricky business, that.” Angor sits back in his chair, smoking and watching Trott as he fidgets under the fallen angel’s gaze. They’re sitting in the gatekeeper’s office at the magic police headquarters. It’s a large empty room, containing only a desk and two chairs in front of floor-to-ceiling windows.

“This is about Smith, isn’t it?” Angor asks, tapping his cigarette in the glass ashtray on his desk.

Trott says nothing. To answer would be pointless: Angor already knows.

“You know, I heard about what happened this weekend. I had to clean up the mess you boys caused.” He leans in across the table, with a dark, imposing stare. “There was a panicked mob of people seen vacating the area, causing street fights, riots, and break ins. Multiple car accidents imposed traffic the next morning.”

“What of it.” Trott folds his arms across his chest and purses his lips.

Angor smirks. “I know that magic, selkie. Are your reigns not tight enough?”

Trott bites his tongue. He stares back at Angor’s bitterly amused features, the grizzled jawline and the parted lips of a humorless smile.

“You court is pushing boundaries. I have a stack of case files this high,” Angor holds his hand a foot above the desk. “If the facts reveal Smith as the cause, I will take action.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Trott snaps.

An icy shiver slips down his spine when Angor glares at him.

“It won’t? Are you so certain?” The fallen angel sneers, lowering his hand. “You know as well as I do that his excessive drowning threatens the mortal population of this city.”

“We’re not the only fae that threaten mortals. There are bigger threats than us.”

“ _Mortals_ are not supposed to _notice_.” Angor growls. “Killing dozens of people per month is serial killer level murdering under mortal law. In the case of fae, if your killing attracts attention, you put us at risk.”

“Risk of what? Hunters?”

Angor shrugs, the action flippant and pretentious. “Who cares? Not like it effects me. I don’t make the laws, our Sidhe Lord does.”

“ _That bastard’s not my fucking lord!_ ” Trott snarls.

The fallen angel’s eyes blaze with holy fire as he stares Trott into silence. “As long as you live in this city, his word is law. Keep your _pathetic mortal king_ , it doesn’t matter-” Angor spits. “He’s not the one who makes the rules around here.”

Trott grinds his teeth.

Angor leans back in his chair, slouching and smoking his cigarette. “Like I said selkie, I have a giant stack of case files. Dozens of reports of dead bodies, drowned, and miles from the river. Smith’s painting a target on his back himself.”

“You don’t know he’s the cause-”

“I have _suspicion_. That’s enough to indict charges, and you know it.”

Trott swallows, glares down at the polished wood grain of Angor’s desk. He tries to keep his voice even and calm as he meets the fallen angel’s eyes again. “Are you going to open the portal for me or not?”

Angor smirks and takes a drag of his cigarette. He blows the smoke back in Trott’s face. “The question you should be asking,” He murmurs, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Is ‘What’s the price?’”

 

* * *

 

The smell of urine is pungent, tainting the air of the bathroom and making Trott nauseous. There’s only one bathroom stall. Its rusted door hangs by one hinge, and the toilet seat is broken two feet from it.

The walls of the bathroom are covered in neon spray-paint graffiti. What stands out the most is “Hell is other people” written in green, except someone has crossed out “other people” and written “fun” above it.

Out of all the adjectives you could use to describe hell, Trott greatly doubts “fun” will be one of them. He and Angor stand in the middle of the room, in front of a moldy sink with a broken mirror over it. Flies flicker and buzz over their heads. The insects bat at a solitary fluorescent light in the ceiling, making a melody to follow the rhythm of the dripping faucet.

Trash scraps and cigarette butts litter the ground, with some smashed glass bottles in the corner. Angor throws down a small vial of blood, a pinch of black powder, and a lit match in the chalk circle he’d drawn. The circle folds in on itself. Tiles crumble away into an inferno of flames. Torturous screams and wails rise from the depths of the pit and both Trott and Angor grimace.

“If you make a portal joke I’m pushing you in and sealing it behind you.” Angor threatens, lighting another cigarette.

Trott double checks the fire resistance and voodoo protection charms he’s wearing around his neck. He feels the stones pulse with the magic laden inside them. He tucks the charms under his shirt and brushes his fingers across his belt. Knives, potions, check. Inside the small bag over one shoulder is a folded take-out carton to store the heart in when he gets it.

It’s important that he doesn’t forget his goal. Get in, get the heart, and get out. Trott didn’t want to spend more time than was necessary stuck in hell.

"When you’re done, I can't pull you out. Do you understand?” Angor says, blowing smoke from his lips in a rush of gray. “You’re going to have to drag yourself out. There will be a ladder, but I can’t offer you any help getting back up."

"I'll be fine." Trott states, cracking his knuckles.

"If you're sure." Angor remarks skeptically, taking another draw from his cigarette.

Trott jumps in.

 

The overbearing heat is what hits him first, and then he hits the ground face down into a pile of bright red sand. Trott coughs and gets to his feet. There’s a crawling feeling on his skin, and fire burning at his neck. He coughs some more and spits out a bit of sand that somehow got in his mouth. He’s not going to admit to himself what that tastes like. The air smells of rotten eggs, fire, and death, and _tastes_ worse.

Steam rises off of Trott’s shoulders as he surveys the land. Boiling heat beads sweat across his brow, and the moisture evaporates almost instantaneously. There are dunes of red sand, pock-marked with volcanic fissures reminiscent of a festering wound, stained with puddles of blood. He can see mountains far, far off in the distance, red and black and bleeding lava. Every direction looks the same.

Trott casts a quick waypoint spell so he’ll know how to get back, and sets off.

 

Hot sand scalds the bottom of his feet, through his shoes, as he walks. He’s walked the beach during summer often enough to get used to the feeling.

Before venturing into hell he slathered himself in burn-protection sunscreen of his own concoction. It was designed to withstand this kind of heat, and would prevent his feet from getting blistered.

But the sand was more like broken glass than grains of sand. His feet would be sore tomorrow regardless.

Most might think hell is a desolate plain, and it is, but it isn’t flat. Trott walks over hills and dunes, across rocky valleys, and skirts fiery rivers. He doesn’t know how long he walks, nor the actual distance. Time has no place here. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for in particular until he sees it- a lake, blood red and bubbling.

There’s something watching him, peeking above the water. An imp. It’s yellow cat-like eyes size him up, and the demon licks it’s lips. The sharp teeth in it’s jaw sparkle as it smiles an evil grin.

The ground is rather swampy as Trott gets closer, and he keeps an eye on the imp while he slowly approaches. Imps were cowards at heart. For all their bite and clawing they would run if provoked and proven less than. They would cower until they could one-up or sabotage you and then they would strike.

It was best to keep your guard up at all times. If they thought you were weak they would risk losing a fight to see you suffer.

Trott stops a few feet from the edge of the lake, which is more of a pond now that he’s closer. The imp watches him, running its tongue across its teeth.

Trott grimaces and waits for the imp to come to him. Demons were curious. He was hoping that could be used to his advantage.

The creature crawls towards him. Once it reaches the sand it kicks and sends the grains flying into Trott’s face.

_Fucking imps_. Trott scowls, brushing the sand from his hair.

The imp cackles and moves closer. It leaves the water and draws itself up to its full height. It’s a head shorter than Trott. It’s chest and head are disproportionate to its long, spiky limbs.

The demon kicks sand at him again, grinning cockily and gnashing its teeth.

Anger brims inside Trott as he and the imp circle each other. The imp occasionally kicks sand at him, laughing madly. The selkie grinds his teeth in annoyance. This fucking shit of a creature was going to pay. He would prove himself. He would fix things.

"Come here you twat..." Trott mumbles, drawing a knife from his belt. He knows if he moves first, the imp is just going to dance out of the way and laugh. He waits, watching for that split second he’ll need to dive aside.

In a burst of action, the imp leaps at him and Trott dodges to the right. He spins the knife in his fingers and plunges the blade into the creature’s side as it moves past. The imp howls and lashes out at Trott’s jugular, but the selkie leans out of striking range and stabs again.

The imp is a scrambler, scrabbling and scratching at Trott’s chest. It’s snarls ferociously, baring its teeth and glaring.

Trott is quick and brutal when he strikes. He dodges as much as he slashes, his movements fluid but calculated. His face is pinched in fury with a stone cold look in his eyes.

One of the imp’s claws catches on his shoulder blade and the deep cut makes Trott hiss. He misjudges his next move, jabbing at the imp’s stomach.

The creature jumps back and snags its claws on one of the charms around Trott’s neck. The charm was tucked under his shirt but the chain was just visible at the edge of his collar.

The imp scratches and yanks, and Trott feels the necklace snap from his neck. The chain slinks into the sand and the charm tumbles out from the bottom of his shirt.

_Shit._ There goes his protection from the dead.

He needs to get out, fast, before the spectres catch up with him.

He shouldn’t have been so careless, to let the demon get that close.

Trott kicks at the imp’s knees, backhands it across the face, and stabs the knife into its shoulder.

The imp shrieks and tries to worm away.

Trott grabs its face with his off hand. He throws the imp onto the ground and smashes its head into the rocky clumps of sand.

The demon digs claws into Trott’s wrists as he pins its leg with a knee.

It struggles and tries to free itself, but Trott is quicker. He slashes the blade across its neck. Blood arcs through the air, splattering into the sand.

The imp gurgles. Its yellow eyes fade to black and its limbs twitch and fall lifeless.

Using the adrenaline from the fight to fuel him, Trott works quickly and makes his cuts with the precision of a surgeon. It’s not the first time he’s stabbed something in the chest, and it’s not the first time he’s dissected something for scientific purposes either.

It _was_ the first time he held a still-beating heart in his hands.

Blood runs down his arms as he holds the heart up for closer inspection. The organ throbs and pulses with demonic energy. Leftover blood gushes over his fingers and makes them sticky.

It was strange, but not quite unsettling to him. After all, what is a heart but a mass of cells anyway?

Trott stashes the heart in the container he brought and cradles it carefully inside his bag. He grimaces down at his clothes sticking to his skin. They’re wet with blood and reek of death. His hands, similarly, are covered in blood.

A gust of frigid air pushes at his back. The hair on the back of Trott’s neck rises and he slowly lifts his head.

_Look what you’ve done..._ The spectres whisper behind him.

Instead of the imp's carcass, Trott sees Smith’s body, in the same state.

He flinches and fumbles his knife. The blade falls into the sand.

It’s not real.

He knows it’s not, but he knows that jawline, he knows those lips, he knows those eyes-

He wants to scream and claw his own eyes out.

It _looks_ real.

It takes all of Trott’s willpower to stand and turn on his heel.

They're right there, waiting, ghostly gray figures huddling in a semi-circle.

_Brother..._ They hiss, billowing as if made of wind. _Welcome._

_One of us, of us_.

_Just like us, aren't you?_

_Family, after all._

_You proved the kelpie right the minute you laid that first punch._

Trott wavers where he stands. There are dozen of spectres, crowding him in. Their ghostly forms shift and change, every face recognizable.

_It was a worthy fight, brother._

_You proved your worth at last._

_Maybe you weren’t as weak as we thought..._

Trott shudders. _Run._ He tells himself. _You have to get out of here. Now. You have what you came for, go!_

The ghosts continue to taunt and cajole him.

_It’s such a pity you didn’t kill him._

_His death would be retribution for his disobedience._

_Insolent river scum..._ They scoff.

_He never truly loved you._

Images of Smith flicker like a film reel in Trott’s mind. Every argument, every fight, and the hallucination of his body in the sand.

_He never truly cared._

_Why would he swear allegiance to you, put his trust in you? What have you ever done for him?_

Trott tries to will himself to move, but his legs are frozen in place.

_He deserves the knives._

_Let him understand your fury._

_You proved yourself, that night. You have made us...proud._

_Now...you are so worthy, brother..._

_Worthy._

_Of the crown._

Trott darts forward and sprints through them. He shudders at the damp, freezing air they’re made of. The cold stings inside his chest and makes his lungs burn.

_Coward, coward!_

_You are no brother of ours._

_No brother of ours is so weak!_

The ladder. Where was the fucking ladder? Trott tests the waypoint spell he placed earlier, hangs onto it and follows it back. His feet pound the sand, and it’s like running on shards of glass.

The spectres follow him, right on his heels. Their voices remain at the same volume despite how far he runs.

_Weakling._

_Worthless._

_Coward._

“Just shut the fuck up!” He screams at them, but they’re not going to listen now. They never did before.

The spectres laugh. They swarm Trott and send cold gusts of air when they pass through him. It’s not a relief from the heat- it’s like plunging into ice water.

_You’re no better than us. You can’t change what you are!_

Trott finds the ladder. It’s metal. He winces but climbs, one hand over the other. He doesn't stop, even though his hands are burning to crisps. He can hear the calls of the spectres from below.

_You are us, and we are you._

_You are nothing better._

_You will never be anything different._

_You are us, brother._

_We are you._

His scorched palms finally reach the broken tiles of the bathroom, and Trott drags himself up and out of the hell hole with a relieved gasp.

Angor is where he left him, standing at the edge. His ethereal light makes Trott's eyes hazy after being in the darkness of hell. Angor picks up a bucket of holy water at his feet, and unceremoniously douses Trott and the pit.

The selkie's hair smokes as the fire in it is extinguished. The burns on his body are soothed over, but the water is cold and it makes him shudder heavily.

A very high pitched wail emanates from the hell hole, long and lonesome. The bathroom tiles repair themselves, sealing the pit until only the thin chalk line remains. Angor scuffs it away with his shoe.

Trott wipes the water from his eyes and gets up off his knees. Pain shocks through his legs and the calf muscles feel like they’re being ripped from his bones. He stumbles. Angor reaches out and steadies him. His hand is a brand on Trott's forearm.

"Got what you needed?" Angor asks, voice a loud rumble in the sudden scream-free silence.

"I better have." The selkie sways from the divine power coming off of Angor, and he feels the burns on his hands heal and the cuts on his chest stop bleeding.

“You don’t have to do that.” He says when the fallen angel lets go.

“Yeah, well. Don’t mention it.” Angor takes a drag from the cigarette still in his hand. “I’m serious, _don’t_ mention it.”

“I don’t want your-”

“You paid me enough. Besides, you’ll thank me later when the numbness on your feet wears off.” Angor smiles, lips pressed together with the corners upturned. There’s no shred of kindness in his eyes. “I’d start walking, if I were you.”

Trott gives him a nod, bites his tongue and holds it.

He has what he came for. It’s time to go home.

 

* * *

 

Smith and Ross gag when Trott walks in smelling like rotten eggs, fire, and death.

“Fucks sake, what-”

“I’m going to be sick-” Ross makes a vomiting sound.

“Can you even get sick?” Trott asks, wearily locking the door.

“Where have you been?” Smith counters, voice muffled because he’s holding the front of his shirt over his nose and mouth. He grimaces at Trott’s blood-covered appearance.

“Hell.”

“And I thought the river smelled bad, shit.” Ross replies.

“Hey, that’s my river you’re talking about!” Smith snaps.

“So?”

“So piss off, mate.”

“Into the river?”

“Fuck you!”

Trott rolls his eyes.

Smith stands and rounds the couch to walk over to him. He reaches out for Trott and starts to speak, but Trott cuts him off.

“You went to the Norn.”

The apartment draws still.

“What?” Smith breathes, arm falling back to his side. “What do you-”

“You went to the Norn. To repay the debt, she wanted a demon heart.” Trott gestures with the blood-stained takeout carton in his hand. He can feel the heart beating through the cardstock.

Smith opens his mouth to say something but closes it again.

Trott stumbles past him to the kitchen. Too bewildered to move, Smith stays behind.

“Are you alright?” Ross asks Trott, catching up with him as Trott stores the demon heart inside the fridge.

“I will be if I can get off my feet.” The selkie mumbles wearily.

Ross’ eyes widen in shock when he notices the floor. “You’re...Trott, your feet are bleeding.”

Trott follows Ross’ gaze and closes the fridge slowly. He’s leaving bloody footprints.

Ross looks at him with concern. “How are you still standing?”

“I don’t know. Luck?” Trott sighs. He can feel the exhaustion starting to creep in. He drank his health potions on the walk back home, and they did the job of healing the smaller cuts and burns. But his feet are stinging now, like a bad sunburn. The numbness is wearing off.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No, it should only be my- Ross!”

The gargoyle scoops Trott into his arms with one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders.

“Ross, you don’t have to-”

“Yes I do, hush.” Ross carries Trott out of the kitchen and back into the living room.

“For fuck’s sake!” Trott fists his hands in Ross’ shirt and holds on. “Put me down!”

“Trott, what the fuck happened to your feet!” Smith exclaims, meeting Ross at the end of the couch. He didn’t notice the bottom of Trott’s feet at first. He was lost in thought, until Trott had walked away and Smith had looked down and noticed the blood. With Ross carrying him, the wounds are obvious.

“I’m fine.” Trott protests. “Ross, put me _down!_ ”

“Like hell you are. Why are your feet bleeding?” Smith moves out of the way as Ross sets Trott down on the couch and props his feet up onto the coffee table.

“I told you, I walked through hell.” Trott repeats. “My feet are bleeding because the heat burned through my shoes and the sand was like broken glass.” He had left the soleless boat shoes by the door when he walked in, to burn later with his bloodstained clothes. It was a pity they were ruined; they were one of the most comfortable, well-worn pairs of shoes he owned.

Sips shuffles down the hall, bedraggled and frowning. “What’s all this racket, eh? I’m trying to sleep.” His eyes land on Trott’s bloodstained appearance and wounded feet. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“I walked through hell.” Trott answers for the third time.

“Why the fuck did you go _there_?” Sips asks, coming closer. He fluffs pillows to put behind Trott’s head and helps to change him out of his stained clothes.

“Oh, I don’t know, I felt like taking a stroll through the _fucking worst place ever_.”

Sips rolls his eyes at Trott’s snark.

Ross leaves his side, mumbling quietly to himself and moving past Sips to walk down the hall.

“Trott.” Smith frowns and sits down across from him on the edge of the coffee table. “What do you mean, I went to the Norn? What did you need to go to hell for?”

“For your memories.” Trott’s tone became serious. “I asked Rythian about that sigil on your back. He said it was flux.”

“ _Flux_?”

“A month ago you went to the Norn and asked for her to take your nightmares away. She agreed, but at a price- she also took your memory. To get your memories back, she asked for a demon heart.”

“...You went through hell for me?” Smith asks in disbelief.

“We’ll return the heart to her tomorrow, and get that sigil off your back. I promised you I’d fix this. So I did.” Trott moves to take Smith’s hand, but pulls back when he sees the blood again.

“But, Trott...” The kelpie looks at Trott with a pained look in his eyes and cups his cheek. “You...”

Ross walks back into the living room carrying a bowl of water, with a washcloth over his shoulder. He sets the bowl down at the other end of the coffee table and hands Smith the washcloth.

“Here. To get the blood off.”

Smith grinds his teeth and takes it. He starts cleaning the blood off of Trott’s arms and hands.

The gentle softness soothes Trott’s skin. He can feel the numbness in his feet and legs subsiding, the pain starting to flare up and make his wounds feel raw. When his eyes connect with Smith's they see the past.

Trott looks away, eyes burning holes in the carpet. He steels himself and tries to stand up. The second he plants his feet onto the carpet it feels like he's walking on a thousand knives. But he knows from experience the knives were worse than this.

"Sit the fuck down, you're hurt!" Smith scolds him.

Sips guides his shoulders down again. “Stay, Trott. You’re going to make it worse.”

Smith immediately props Trott’s feet up on the coffee table again. “You need to heal. Don’t hurt yourself more.”

“You don’t need to-” Trott protests.

“Yeah, we do.” Ross interrupts, lugging Trott's box of potions down the hall. He and Smith trade, and Ross goes to rinse the cloth out.

Smith takes out one of the stronger health potions. “This is a healing draught, right?” He asks Trott, double checking.

Trott nods.

Smith hands the vial to Sips, who sits down next to Trott on the couch. The mortal king uncorks the vial and holds it up for Trott to drink.

“How long will that take to kick in?” Ross asks, returning. He kneels down onto the floor next to Trott’s legs, between the couch and the coffee table.

“A few minutes.” Smith answers.

Sips sets the now-empty vial aside.

Ross waits until the potion kicks in and Trott gives him a small nod, before he starts to gently wash Trott’s feet. The water in the bowl on the coffee table slowly turns pink-red.

Trott stares down at the fabric of the couch and picks at a rough stain with his fingernail. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. His feet are numbed from the potion, but the effects won’t last long.

Ross’ hands are careful as they clean the blood and grit from his wounds with a cautious tenderness. Trott hates it. He wants to squirm, but Sips’ arm is across his shoulder, grounding him and keeping him still.

Ross was treating him like he was holy- and Trott never had been, and never would be, anything close. The wounds were his burden to carry and his price to pay. He's not going to let others take his pain when he so rightfully deserves it.

When Ross finishes bandaging Trott’s feet, Smith takes another vial from the potion box.

“Drink this. You need to rest.” The kelpie murmurs, roughly yanking out the cork of one of the sleeping draughts Trott had made for Smith and then forgotten about.

“I’m fine.” Trott grumbles.

Smith shakes his head.

“You’re not fine, Trott.” Ross speaks up from Trott’s other side. “We’re just trying to help.”

Smith and Trott stare into each other's eyes, hardly blinking. Neither Sips nor Ross can read the expressions on their faces. It's strange to see Trott so hurt and Smith so solemn, when a day ago it was the other way around.

"Trott..." Smith whispers. "Please..."

Their fingers touch as Trott takes the vial from Smith's grasp. He downs the entire thing in one gulp and hands the empty vial to Sips again. Only then does he let out a long sigh and start to relax.

Smith brushes the back of his hand across Trott’s cheek. There’s a fresh scar above his eyebrow, which will fade completely in time if it’s shallow enough. But that scar isn’t the only one. There are scratches on Trott’s arms and legs, and the worst are on his wrists and chest. The red stands out in vibrant contrast to Trott’s pale skin.

His eyes are dark and hollow, and Smith hates it. He wants to resurrect the demon Trott had killed just so he can murder it himself. He grinds his teeth in anger at what hell has wrought. In the kelpie's mind, there was nothing he could say to make things better. It had already been said before.

“Smith...” Trott whispers, voice raspy. He tries to speak, starts and stops again but the words won’t cooperate.

Smith shushes him. He presses a kiss to Trott’s forehead and watches his eyes flutter shut. He nuzzles the side of his face and the selkie’s head falls to rest in the crook of Smith’s neck. Smith forces himself to pull away once he knows Trott’s asleep.

Ross nudges him aside and gathers Trott into his arms. “I’ll take him to bed. It’s much comfier than the couch.”

 

* * *

 

Smith feels shell-shocked. He’s thankful they had gotten Trott to take anything at all for his injuries. The kelpie stares off into space, confused and somber. He knows hell will show you your inner demons. Trott's were bound to be ruthless.

"He really went to hell and back for me..."

"Does that really surprise you?" Sips asks Smith over a glass of whiskey. They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, and Smith can’t help but feel a strange sense of deja vu.

"I don't know what to think of it. I can imagine what's going through his head after leaving there, and...it’s not going to be pretty."

“Hell never is.”

Smith swirls the ice in his drink. "Everything's still blank. I feel like I should start remembering what I did, now that I know, but nothing seems clearer."

“It’s not going to be. Your memories were literally taken from you. The sigil on your back is going to keep you from remembering until we can get it off.”

Smith takes a drink of his whiskey, swallowing down the alcohol and the questions he can’t answer yet.

“Fuck...” He groans, setting his glass down with a dull thunk. “How could I fuck up like that?”

“Fuck up like what?”

“Go to the Norn.”

Sips fiddles with his glass, unsure what to say. He gives a small shrug. “You made a mistake.”

“Yeah, and look what it cost me. I hurt Trott that night at the party, and even still he went to hell and back. There’s no way he can forgive me that easily...” Smith shakes his head. “I don’t even know what I did. I’m terrified to find out what I’ve been doing every night for the past month.”

“Probably just the usual shit, Smiffy. Don’t worry about it.”

Smith rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I guess I’ll know soon enough. If we get my memories back tomorrow.”

“What I don’t get,” Sips says, tapping his fingers on the side of his glass. “Is why Trott didn’t want us to help. It’s uncharacteristic of him.”

“Because he thinks-” Smith cuts himself off and drinks his whiskey instead.

“Thinks what?” Sips pries.

“Forget it.” The kelpie reaches across the table for the whiskey bottle.

Sips pulls it out of his reach. “No, tell me. What does he think?”

Smith rubs his eyes tiredly. “It’s not my place to say.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he continues. “Trott...doesn’t like to be healed by anyone other than himself. Unless it could be a life or death situation. When he gets hurt, he thinks he deserves it.”

“He shouldn’t blame himself.”

“I know.” Smith says to the table top, turning his glass in his hand. “He should blame me.”

Sips furrows his brow. “What? No.”

“Yes. I went to the Norn. I made that decision. I don’t remember any of it, but for her to have put a sigil on my lower back...”

Sips frowns. “That doesn’t mean it’s your fault he’s hurt. That doesn’t mean he should blame you.”

“I would rather he be mad at me a million times over than hate himself.” Smith purses his lips and stares hard at the whiskey in his glass. “Out of the two of us, I’ve fucked up way more than he has.”

Sips shakes his head. “Everybody makes mistakes, Smith. We all have. But Trott being hurt? That’s not your fault.”

“I don’t make it any easier on him.”

“ _We_ don’t make life easier _on each other_ , that’s for certain. But shitty situations aren’t the fault of any of us.” Sips insists. “Life...life is about risk, chance, and luck. No one said it was going to be easy.”

“Sounds like a game.” Smith mumbles, taking a drink.

“You could call it that. Some people do.”

“Do you think life’s a game, Sips?”

Sips tilts his glass and stares down at the amber liquid inside. “I think luck and fate have parts to play. I don’t know if I would call life a game. Though...” He brings the glass to his lips and drinks the remainder of his whiskey. “God knows I’ve gambled with mine.”

Smith stares morosely at his empty glass.

“More whiskey?” Sips asks, nudging the bottle back into Smith’s reach.

The kelpie shakes his head, pushes back his chair and stands. “No thanks.”

Sips pours himself another drink instead.

 

On his way to the bedroom, Smith passes Ross. The gargoyle is on his knees, scrubbing the bloodstains out of the carpet.

Smith wonders if Trott sees what he does- sand instead of the floor of their apartment.

_No_ , Smith corrects himself, _he sees the prelude, not the aftermath._

He grimaces and closes his eyes for a moment, trying to let the worry fade.

Much as he’d like to, he can’t.

 

Smith finds Trott in the bedroom. The selkie has his back towards him, blankets tucked across his waist. Smith reaches out but his hand freezes over the scar on Trott’s back. He slowly lowers his hand back to his side.

He isn’t sure why he does- he wants to reassure Trott, but he’s dead asleep and probably won’t even know. Smith kneels beside the bed and presses a gentle kiss to the back of Trott’s neck. He slowly and methodically kisses every patch of skin he can see, hoping somehow it’s comforting.

When his lips brush Trott’s shoulder blade, the selkie shivers involuntarily. Smith stills, but Trott sleeps on without issue. The kelpie continues where he left off, tracing constellations with a brush of his lips, and following Trott’s freckles as if they’re stars.

Smith stops at Trott’s mid-back and stands. He moves around to the other side of the bed and slides in beside him.

The dark circles under Trott’s eyes make them look bruised. Smith’s own face is bruised still, and he struggles to find a position to rest his jaw in that doesn’t hurt. Smith sighs and closes his eyes. He rests his hands atop Trott’s under the covers and wishes, for once, that things were different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY LOOK  
> http://cuddlypurplepanda.tumblr.com/post/126481956164/so-been-reading-urban-magic-yogs-and-i-already  
> Someone made me fanart!!! <3  
> (Seriously, thank you. I love you forever, no matter how much you hate me for this chapter :P)  
> EDIT:  
> Someone else made me fanart!!! <3  
> http://boaillustration.tumblr.com/post/138349648180/a-fanart-i-did-for-one-of-the-scenes-of  
> ( _Thank you so much._ Wow.  <3)
> 
> undeniably Ravs’ bar:  
> http://yogcities.tumblr.com/post/113409798233/steampunktendencies-donnys-bar-sydney
> 
> railcar:  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121094955647  
> drawing from my one-time experience on the Chicago L elevated rail system here
> 
> My Little Kelpie, I’ve been waiting to use that joke. If UMY Smith was a My Little Pony, his cutie mark would be a ring of keys :P
> 
> I believe it was dragestil and metalmeisje who came up with the UMY Tom Clark (Angor) headcanon? Instead of Magical Health and Safety, I have him as more of a inspector, kind of magic police.
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121300030826/blxck-diamonds-this-is-my-favorite-thing-on  
> question everything bathroom graffiti
> 
> hellgate: http://lambandserpent.tumblr.com/post/53676432262/the-gaping-flame-filled-crater-has-been-this-way
> 
> http://annaxiin.tumblr.com/post/122839595390  
> second sticker sheet  
> cw for knives, body horror, wounds, actual heart, gore, smoking
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/122125746803/fishstickmonkey-portable-pharmacy-tuscan-made  
> Trott's potion case


	6. that which weighs upon the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 6 cws: memory loss, knives, mention of injuries, stabbing, blood; mentions of drowning, murdering, getting off on murdering someone via drowning, dead bodies and death; illness, wounds  
> section from chapter 3: fighting, violence, threats of violence, mentions of/allusions to past abuse (physical/emotional), altered mental state, mention of knives  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.  
> If you have any questions as to why I wrote what I did, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/damned-guilty-deeds-to-a-sinners-mind-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> spotify playlist, Guilt and Memory: https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5FJUeTPUSpi0EB1M9iPkMw  
> songs for this chapter:  
> Reaper Man- Mother Mother (Smith in the supermarket, also a very UMYSmith song in general)  
> Black Burning Heart- Keane (kind of an end credits song, covering Smith before Trott, Smith meeting Ross, Smith in “my black and deep desires”, and Smith after getting his memories back)
> 
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/guilt-and-memory-playlist/
> 
> sorry for the terribly long author’s note at the end.

The light of morning cascades through the window and bathes the bedroom in an amber glow. Trott sits half-dressed on the edge of the bed. His bandaged feet dangle over the side, toes not quite grazing the floor.

“Blue, purple, red? You’ve got the entire fucking rainbow in here, Trotty.” Smith remarks over his shoulder. He stands at the closet looking for a shirt. “What color do you want?” The hangers in the closet scrape metallically on the clothes rack as he pushes shirts from one side to the other.

“Whichever.” Trott mumbles. He rubs his eyes and sighs at the cluttered side-table. Their half-eaten plates of breakfast and several empty potion bottles are clustered around the lamp.

“How about this one?” Smith asks, holding up an orange and blue plaid button-down.

“Sure.”

Trott watches as Smith removes the shirt from the hanger and walks back over to him. He slips one arm and then the other through the sleeves and Smith adjusts the fit, pulling the thin fabric over Trott’s back.

Smith fixes the rolled sleeves twisted at Trott’s elbows. He draws the sides of the shirt closer until the tails touch, and starts to button up the shirt from bottom to top.

Trott follows Smith’s fingers with his eyes. He keeps his hands still on the bedsheets. He would normally fidget, with how slowly Smith is moving, but the kelpie’s hands are warm and comforting.

When the last button is fastened just under his collarbone, Trott takes Smith's hands in his and holds them in his lap.

“Smith...that night at the party...” Trott starts, looking down at their intertwined fingers.

“Trott-”

“No, let me finish.” Trott chides tiredly. He takes a deep breath and looks up. “What I did was wrong.” His eyes focus in on the bruises on Smith’s face. The swelling was gone, and the bruises were starting to yellow at the edges with the help of Trott’s magic speeding up the healing process. It still looked painful.

“What I did was wrong,” Trott repeats, “And I’m sorry.” He swallows thickly and drops his gaze down to their hands once more. “I hope someday...you'll be able to trust me again.”

“I trust you with my life, Trott.” Smith reassures him.

The kelpie can hear the rebuttal already. _And yet you went to the Norn instead of me._

“It’s myself that I don’t trust. Not anymore.” Smith clarifies. “I’ve been a constant thorn in your side, Trott.” He moves his hand from Trott’s to cup his cheek. “You deserve better than me.”

Trott shakes his head minutely. “I don't.”

Smith purses his lips together in a thin line.

_Am I not good enough for you? Is that what you mean?_

_It can't be, not when you're looking...like you did all those years ago._

Smith strokes Trott’s cheek with his thumb. “Don't tell me that.” He stammers, finally finding the words to speak.

“Why not?” Trott asks brokenly.

The kelpie presses a kiss to Trott’s forehead. “Because it's not true,” He insists. “It’s not true, and I know you know that.” Smith moves his other hand up, bringing Trott’s with it and holding it to his chest, over his heart. “I know you do.”

They stare into each others eyes, mossy green into ocean blue.

_Don't tell me you don't deserve better. Not when I'm more of a monster than you are._

“Lets go get this done with.” Trott says with a tight-lipped smile.

Smith removes Trott’s hand from his chest and his own from Trott’s cheek. The selkie squeezes his fingers gently, and Smith takes a step back.

Trott holds onto Smith’s hands, takes a deep breath, and slowly stands up.

 

* * *

 

“Try not to knock anything over, Ross.” Trott gives the gargoyle a pointed look as they enter the shop.

Ross looks away guiltily. He minds his tail as they walk around the shelves and up to the counter.

Smith fidgets, hand in his pocket clenching around his keys. Everything is unfamiliar and that’s terrifying. According to Trott, he’s been here before, but he can’t remember.

He picks up a ceramic mug from one of the display tables and turns it in his hand like he’s inspecting evidence. There’s an L carved into the unglazed bottom of the mug. He puts it carefully back down.

Trott raps his knuckles on the counter. He opens his mouth to say something but the Norn walks into the room through the beaded curtain. Her unseeing eyes land on Smith.

“ _Back again, are we._ ”

Her lilting voice sends a shiver down Smith’s spine.

Trott speaks before Smith can answer.

“I have what you wanted.” He takes the take-out carton from his satchel and hands it to her across the counter. “One demon heart, in exchange for his memories.”

The Flux Queen hums. Her purple-stained fingers tap the side of the carton. She bends her ear closer to hear the undead thumping of the demon heart inside. “This should suffice. This way.”

They follow her into the back room. Ross, Trott, and Smith watch as she takes the demon heart from the carton and sets it down next to the blackened skull on the altar.

“This _will_ do nicely. Your trip proved fruitful, selkie.” The Norn moves from the altar to her workbench, searching the drawers and plucking crystals and bones from their contents. “Or your fall, I should say.” She smirks at Trott as she turns and scatters the items across the chalk circle on the floor.

Trott glares back.

The Norn crosses the room and takes a jar of red liquid off the wall to fill the chalice on the altar with.

“You know, it’s funny...” She remarks, watching the smoke rise from the chalice as she fills it to the brim. “One of you came to me to get rid of nightmares, and in the process the other gained them.”

Trott bristles. The brimstone smell of the liquid in the chalice makes him nauseous. “ _Fuck_ you.” He mutters quietly.

The Flux Queen lets out a chuckle and screws the lid back on the empty jar. “You should have made yourself a proton pack instead of a faulty little charm. Maybe that would have been more effective?”

“ _Shut the fuck up_.” Smith growls. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He doesn’t know what specifically the Norn is referencing- Trott had only told them his voodoo protection charms broke while he was in hell- but he can guess, and her condescending tone makes his blood boil.

Ross shuffles his feet at the edge of the chalk lines, tail flicking with nervousness. His eyes examine every movement of the Norn as she places runestones and a clay jar onto the altar.

“ _Take off your jacket, and step into the circle._ ” The Norn commands Smith, her voice icy with faux-sincerity.

Smith grinds his teeth but does what she wants. As he steps past the lines, he hands his jacket to Trott. The selkie folds the leather over his arm, frowning.

The Flux Queen takes the athane from her worktable and crowds into Smith’s personal space.

Smith holds his ground and keeps his hands clenched in fists. His nails dig into his palms.

“You need to relax.” She sighs, pulling the bottom of his shirt up with her off hand. “Your muscles are tense as fuck.”

“Why?” Smith snaps. “Does it even fucking matter if I do?”

He feels the tip of the knife graze the sigil on his lower back, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

“Just a _suggestion_.” The Norn says snidely. “ _Because this is going to hurt._ ”

She plunges the blade into his back.

Smith lets out a ragged gasp. His vision turns purple. There’s ringing in his ears and his whole body pulses with energy

The Norn twists the handle of the knife slowly, like a key in a lock, and Smith screams through his teeth.

The clay jar on the altar shatters, blinding the room in a shockwave of white light. Trott and Ross shield their eyes.

Smith’s memories unlock. His senses are aflame as he’s assaulted all at once by everything he forgot. Feelings rush and past laughter bubbles in his ear. His mind tries desperately to sort the memories and piece them together, but for now it’s just a flood of information.

Several minutes go by, with Smith barely managing to keep standing while rolls of pain wrack his body. The Norn mutters lowly, and he can’t understand what she’s saying but he remembers it now- it’s the same as last time, but the lines are reversed.

As the white light fades, she pulls the knife out and moves away.

Smith groans. He sways where he stands. Blood black as ink drips from the wound on his back and hits the ground, popping and crackling like battery acid.

Ross catches Smith just as his legs go out from under him.

Trott glares at Smith’s blood on the floor and at the knife in the Norn’s grasp.

“Let’s go.” Trott says quietly to his court. He turns to the Norn. “You have your payment, witch. We’re done.”

The Norn just smirks.

 

* * *

 

The Garbage Court hobbles out of the shop guiding a silent and stumbling Smith. It’s almost like he’s blackout drunk the way he’s walking, or attempting to walk. They can’t blame him. A month’s worth of information just got shoved back into his brain.

Sips is waiting in his company car, running outside the shop, and the trio slip into the backseat.

Trott hovers a hand over the wound on Smith’s back and starts working magic to heal it. He’s careful not to touch the black dripping out of it, wary of its properties.

Ross helps Smith get his shirt off. The kelpie’s eyes are bloodshot and hands are shaking.

“It’s going to be alright, Smith.” Ross murmurs quietly as Smith slumps into his arms, his head lolling onto his shoulder. “We’re heading home.”

 

Smith watches the scenes unfold when his brain has finished sorting it all. The memories are dream-like. He can no longer see the interior of the car, it's like he's watching a movie fixed in first person. He can feel the leather car upholstery under his hands, and Ross holding him, but the memories feel real too.

He tastes whiskey on his tongue. He hears the music from the club in his ears, muffling the voices in real life. The patrons in the club sound more real than the voices of his court. It sounds like Ross and Trott are talking from miles away.

 _“You make pole-dancing look effortless.”_ Smith hears himself say to a stripper.

_The stripper laughs. “You think this is easy?”_

_“I think I could manage if I tried.”_

_“Oh, really now?” They lean closer to Smith._

_Smith feels his magic loop around the stripper. His hand reaches up to tuck some money into the ties of their bikini bottoms._

_“I’d love to see you dance more. Maybe somewhere a little more...private?”_

He feels his memory-self smirk.

_“A private show? I’ll see if can get a room for you...” The stripper strokes a finger down his cheek. “What’d you say your name was?”_

_“Smith.”_

_“Smith...” The stripper smiles politely. “Excuse me a moment, please.”_

_Smith watches their ass as they walk away. He grins, and the green light of the bar make his stare all the more sinister._

In real life, his body sways with each turn of the car. Ross holds him steady, murmuring things he can't comprehend in this state. Trott's hand hovers over his back, and the wound burns. It feels like flames are licking up his spine.

_“I bet you I could do that.” Smith boasts. He and the stripper stand in a practice room in the basement of the club. It was the only free place available tonight where they could give a private show._

_The stripper scoffs. “I greatly doubt that. But I’d love to see you try.” They gesture at the pole with a grin._

_Smith laughs. “Watch me.” He takes off his boots and socks, and walks, barefoot, towards the pole. The stripper plugs their phone into a nearby speaker system and puts some music on._

_Smith takes the pole between his hands. He turns his back to the stripper. Their eyes watch him intently, as he begins to sway his hips in time with the song. He pulls himself up, muscles straining, and twists and flips himself into various positions in time with the music. His hands slide along the pole, and he turns the charm up as he grins over at the stripper._

_Their mouth is parted in a silent O-shape._

_Smith flips himself upside down, holds on by his ankles, and peels his shirt off._

_That gets a moan of approval._

_When the song is complete, Smith dismounts the pole and heaves a long sigh of satisfaction._

_“Wow...you’re...” The stripper says, gulping for air already. “You’re actually pretty good.”_

_“All in the hips and wrists, right?”_

_“Partly...I’m speechless.”_

_“Well, I can think of other things to do to keep you talking.” Smith says sultrily as he steps slowly up to the stripper. “Or take your breath away, whichever you prefer.”_

_The stripper laughs, breathing harder than Smith even though he’s the one who was pole dancing. “You already take my breath away.”_

_Smith chuckles and saunters closer to curl his hand around the back of the stripper’s neck. “Honey, you haven’t seen nothing yet.”_

 

Trott rubs at the tension in his forehead as he tries futilely to heal the wound on Smith’s back. It was a slow process. The black bleeding from it was corrosive. When they got home, he’d have to apply something to take the poison from it. The acidity kept undoing what he healed.

“Fuck, he looks wrecked.” Sips speaks up, watching them in the rearview mirror while waiting for the light to change.

Ross frowns as he strokes Smith’s sweat-dampened hair away from his face. Smith is breathing heavily. His eyes are unfocused and hazy.

“He looks terrible.” The gargoyle agrees. He looks over Smith’s shoulder at Trott. “How’s the wound healing?”

“Slowly.” Trott sighs. “I don’t know what he’s bleeding. It’s magical residue from the sigil, but I don’t think it’s flux.”

“If not flux, then what? I thought that was what the sigil on his back was made of?” Sips asks, dropping his gaze to the road again when the light turns green.

“Yeah, but...” Trott tries to give a reason, but he genuinely doesn’t know. “I try to stitch the wound together and it just burns my work away. It’s not making it any easier.”

Ross bites his lip. “How do we get it out? Not all of his blood is like that, right?”

“It shouldn’t be. I think it’s just at the surface level of the-”

Smith shudders in Ross’ arms, and both Ross and Trott watch him carefully for a few moments before resuming what they were doing.

 

_Smith drifts in the water, away from the pole and the stripper floating at the foot of it. He swims over to the thin windows along the far wall and pushes at the locks on them until they open. The water rushes out into the streets, and Smith leans back against the wall, dizzy with the magic._

_His heart is pounding. The rush of adrenaline sings through his veins and the feeling of satisfied arousal is saccharine._

_Smith’s eyes land on his clothes on the floor. Fuck, wet clothes were a pain to get back on. He debates just walking out of the club naked, but decides against it. He’ll just wear the jeans._

_In the meantime, Smith lets the water and the magic drain. He lies at the bottom of the basement-turned-swimming-pool and watches the body float in the artificial current._

_The kelpie closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The water drains bit by bit, and it feels like coming home to freshly cleaned sheets. He’s so warm and it feels so good..._

 

“Come on, Smith, we’re home.” Ross tugs the kelpie from the car with a worried frown on his face.

Smith can’t hold himself up. He’s like a ragdoll. His eyes are open but he stares at nothing, and any prompting leads to no response.

Ross carries him inside, muttering to himself sadly. “Why do I always have to carry you guys around all the time? One day I’m going to make you all carry me, see how you like it.”

 

* * *

 

_Smith steps out of the club, basking in the late-night chill._

_There’s a young man smoking outside. He’s dressed in a comic-book shirt and skinny jeans, with a rainbow-studded belt slung around his hips instead of threaded through the belt loops._

_The young man sighs heavily and looks up from where he’s scowling at his phone. His eyes widen when they meet Smith’s._

_The kelpie’s probably quite a sight, soaking wet and clad in his wet jeans that cling in all the right places._

_“Do you- Do you know where 236 West Elm Street is?” The young man asks, licking his lips and looking Smith blatantly up and down. “I’m supposed to go to an afterparty there and my ride cancelled on me.”_

_Smith flashes him a dazzling grin and gestures over at his car. “Sure. Hop in.”_

_The young man stomps out his cigarette on the ground and pops a piece of gum into his mouth. “Want one?” He offers the pack to Smith._

_“Nah, I’m good.” Smith holds the passenger side door open for him as he gets in the car._

_The young man shrugs. “Suit yourself.”_

 

_They talk a bit as Smith drives. He cranks the charm up and watches the young man relax into the passenger seat. Every so often he grins over at him, and when they stop at a red light the young man gets fed up and pulls him into a rough kiss._

_They make out until Smith notices the light turn green. He pulls away, leaving the young man wanting more._

_“You know,” Smith says as he turns a corner, “You could ditch the party and we could go somewhere else.”_

_“Where?” The young man’s hand caresses Smith’s thigh. His eyes are dark with arousal as they stare at Smith with awed desire._

_“I know a place.”_

_Smith drives up where the industry is thick and the river is more of a canal. He rolls the car up to the edge of the pier and parks it._

_“Where are we?” The young man asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt._

_“The docks. The moonlight’s kind of pretty out over the water, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Smith smiles._

_The young man smirks and chuckles back. “I’d rather look at a pretty thing like you.” They slide themselves into Smith’s lap._

_Smith laughs, taking their hips in his hands. “Luckily for you, sweetheart, the first look is always free.”_

_He fucks the young man in the car, and drowns him quickly and effortlessly. The adrenaline makes his head rush. The high is even more heady, felt for the second time that night._

_Smith drops the body in the river with a splash and spits the gum out of his mouth. It makes a plinking sound when it hits the surface. He grins and sees his reflection grin back, rippling with the waves._

_The headlights glare and flicker as he drives away._

 

* * *

 

Ross stays up all night with Smith, who lies awake staring at the ceiling, almost catatonic. From what they can tell, he's awake but not conscious of his surroundings. His eyes track left and right as if dreaming, but they stare unfocused.

Sips chews his nails. He can’t sit still and wait. He walks around the apartment every so often and comes back with a beer. Eventually he gives up on beer because his bladder can’t handle the excess fluid.

Trott rotates his location every hour, sitting vigil at Smith’s side or in his office. He reads all he can about thaumcraft in between draining the black blood from Smith’s wound.

He tries potions, he tries salves, he even tries leeches. Nothing speeds up the process. The sickness just has to take it’s toll.

And it does. As dawn breaks on the next day, Smith starts running a fever.

Trott’s cold hands take Smith’s as he shudders. Trott thinks he’s trying to push the blankets off, but Smith’s limbs refuse to cooperate for him. Instead, they twitch restlessly. The selkie tries to sooth him and feels Smith’s forehead with the back of his hand.

Smith groans at the contact. He’s burning up, skin hot to the touch.

“Nightmares...” His voice cracks when he speaks. “Now I know what you meant.”

Smith fades back into unconsciousness in seconds.

Trott rubs his thumb across the back of Smith’s sweaty hands. He nudges Ross where he’s leaning half-asleep at the foot of the bed, and asks him to get some ice.

The gargoyle shuffles to his feet, noisily stomping down the hall in exhaustion. The sound makes Sips’ snore stutter, but the mortal king sleeps on, head tipped back and mouth gaping wide. The blanket has fallen half out of his lap and onto the floor beneath his chair by the bedroom window.

Trott sighs and resists the temptation to lay his head besides Smith. It’s his shift to keep an eye on him. And that means keeping both eyes open.

 

* * *

 

_Nineties music plays softly from tinny speakers as Smith walks into a tiny supermarket. The shop is empty save for only one person._

_“We’re closed, so you’re going to have to come in later.” The janitor calls over his shoulder. He mops the floor grumpily, muttering to himself._

_Smith boots squeak on the cleaned floor as he struts closer. The janitor is fairly young, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties at the oldest. His strawberry blonde hair is messed up like he’s been running his hands through it all night._

_“Why not right now?” Smith purrs._

_The janitor turns. Their eyes match the blue-colored jumpsuit they’re wearing. The embroidered name on the pocket reads “Sal.”_

_Smith grins slowly. The mop falls from the janitor’s hands and clatters to the ground._

_Smith grabs the man by the front of his jumpsuit and pulls him in for a kiss. He bites at his lips and Sal moans._

_Smith drags him over to the glass-display refrigerators lining the walls and shoves him hard against the door. Sal’s hands paw at the button on his jeans. There are calluses on his fingers and they graze under Smith’s shirt._

_Maybe he’s a guitar player, Smith thinks, that’s hot._

_He tears Sal’s jumpsuit from his body as they kiss. His own clothes are easy to shuck off. The routine is well-practiced._

_He yanks Sal to him. The janitor stumbles into his arms, naked and moaning._

_Smith throws open the fridge door, and gives a firm kick to the shelves of milk jugs to push the cart back into the cold storage room._

_He guides Sal inside._

_Cold fog rises around them as Smith fucks the man against the inside of the door. The man's eyes roll back in his head. His body is pressed against the glass, palms smudging the frost that lines the inside._

_Smith digs his nails into Sal’s hips. He floods the tiny room with ice water, moaning and biting bruises into the flesh of the janitor’s back._

_Sal is squashed between Smith’s body and the glass door. He thrashes wildly, arms weakly knocking into the wall, and then stills._

_Smith’s climax cloaks him in brief but blissful warmth. His heart thumps behind his ribcage. He laughs quietly, gasping in air as he catches his breath._

_When his teeth start to chatter, he pushes the door to the fridge open. The body falls out. Its feet are caught at the lip of the door._

_Smith picks up his clothes where he left them and puts them on. He slinks away from his mess, shivering, and heads towards the cheap coffee he saw by the check-out. Nothing like stale, watery coffee to warm your frigid hands. Or your frigid heart._

 

There’s something pressed to his lips in real life.

Someone is stroking a hand over his eyes, brushing his eyelids closed.

“Come on, Smith. You have to drink this. You need to sleep.”

Oh. It’s Trott.

Smith struggles to retain coherency, sipping at the glass pressed to his lips.

“There you go, sunshine, that’s it...” Trott coaxes him to drink.

“He must be able to hear us.” Ross murmurs close by.

“I don’t think he understands completely. But I hope this helps...he can’t spend the entire day like this and not sleep.”

Sips speaks up, his voice quieter and farther away than the other two. “Who knows how long he’s going to be like this. He has the whole month of nights to relive.”

“Exactly. Hopefully the draught lasts.”

Smith feels Trott draw the glass away and wipe his lips with a thumb.

Something is tucked tightly around him, smelling like salt water and brine.

He drifts and the memories take him down again.

 

* * *

 

_The summer heat simmers down into crisp, cool night air._

_Smith drives. He caught a kill already, drowned them in a phonebooth a block away from the bar he’d ensnared them at._

_His stomach grumbles. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and he was hungry. He could really do for a late night snack...maybe some tacos?_

_He pulls up to the drive-through menu of a Taco Bell and presses the order button._

_“Hi, what can I get you?” A tired voice asks through the speaker system._

_“Yeah, I’ll have three crunchy tacos. And a side of nachos to go with it.”_

_“Coming right up, sir. Would you like anything else?”_

_“That’s it.”_

_The person over the mic gives Smith his total, and the kelpie extracts his wallet from his jeans to count out the bills. He drives around the building to the delivery window, under the only light in the parking lot. He glances around at the empty expanse of asphalt until the drive-through window slides open._

_He looks up._

_The teller in the window has a rounded face, with a small nose and brown eyes. Their short brown hair curls around their ears and their bangs are swept across their forehead._

_“It might be a few minutes, sir. There are only two of us working tonight.” The teller says, voice loud despite the late hour._

_“Take your time. I’m in no hurry.” Smith hums, letting his charm bleed into the words. He hands over the money._

_The teller gives him a smile and closes the door of the window._

_Smith watches them punch numbers in on a cash register. The lights inside make the teller’s makeup more visible. They’re wearing pink lipstick the color of rose petals and dark, smoky eyeshadow._

_Someone behind the teller hands them a takeout bag, and darts back towards the kitchen and out of sight._

_The teller slides open the door._

_“Hey again, cutie.” Smith winks up at them. “Wanna go for a ride?”_

_The teller blinks rapidly. “Oh, uh- I’m working, but...”_

_“We won’t go far, promise.” He smiles. “Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere else on a night like this?”_

_The teller shakily hands Smith his food. “I- would you like any sauce with that?” Their voice rises in pitch as they talk. “Any extra napkins?”_

_“No, but I’d sure like something else.” Smith slides his hand down the teller’s arm as he takes the food from them. He tucks the meal in his waterproof glove compartment for later and turns back to the window._

_“How about it, sweetie? Favor a late night cruise?” Smith grins._

_The teller moans. “Fuck...you know what? Fuck this job!”_

_They rip the apron off over their head and climb through the drive-through window. Smith laughs at their eagerness, guides them through his own window and onto his lap._

_The teller loses a shoe halfway in. One of Smith’s hands curls around their waist as he drives away._

_“It must be my lucky night.” They sigh into his ear._

_Smith chuckles low in his throat. “It’s your lucky something, alright.”_

 

_He leaves the body by the side of the road once he’s quelled his itch to drown again. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the sideview mirror, he laughs. He’s covered in lipstick smears._

_Singing an old tune under his breath, Smith parks under a bridge on the river’s edge. He gets out and reclines back on the hood of his car, letting the heat of the engine warm his naked body._

_Smith watches the current thread through the concrete support beams and messily eats his cold fast food. The crumbs stick to his chest where they’ve fallen, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he doesn’t give a care in the world._

 

* * *

 

The last forgotten memory to be restored is the night of the Garbage Court party. Remembering this is heavy- the magic Smith poured into the crowd that night weighs down on him like iron anvils. It’s appalling- his magic _never_ caused a riptide before, but this time...

He over-exerted himself, and what was worse was that the magic had barely been under his control. Smith could tell how much hold he had as he relives the party. No wonder Trott was pissed. His magic is wild, caught around each dancer in the crowd. Each link is tied back to himself, like strings attached to a puppet.

He’s not the one in charge- the crowd is. They’re greedy for the seductive high he can give them. They want more and more, and he gives it all. His charm is enveloping the room like fog.

Smith can only watch with dread as the metaphorical strings wind tighter and tighter, begging to snap.

_Smith sways in the midst of the thrall. His body undulates with theirs, and their hands caress his skin. The voices of the crowd meld with his. They shout lyrics to the skies with the worded force of a summoning._

_Smith’s never felt this way before. His charm runs within his veins like the coursing river he belongs to. The feeling is heady, electric and raw, and at the same time exhilarating. He can’t get enough._

_Neon lights flash in his vision. The bass of the music makes the floor vibrate under his feet._

_He wants to let himself drift in the sea of people. They’re dancing for him, laughing for him, swept up in the charm magic and loving it. He wants to be lifted, weightless, to the top of the crowd and carried._

_All of it, all of it feels so good..._

_Smith wants to lose himself in it, too._

With a heavy heart, real life Smith watches memory-Trott approach him, looking furious.

He can't change the past, only relive it. But as the last of his forgotten memories piece together chronologically, he wishes this part never occurred.

_“I’m going to tell you only one more time, Smith. Last fucking chance.” Trott grinds the words between his teeth._

_“What are you going to do, Trott? I’ll have you know I’ll do what I damn please and fucking thank you.” Smith says smugly. A not-at-all-friendly grin turns his mouth into a row of sharp teeth._

_“Don’t think that because I care about you I won’t beat the shit out of you, sunshine.” Trott sneers._

_Smith's eyes notice the twitch in Trott's wrists, towards the knife at his belt. “What, are you going to rip me apart with those fucking knives of yours, Trotty?” He snaps, teeth grinding. “Make me bleed out onto the floor, and-”_

_There’s a sharp burst of pain as Trott’s fist connects with his jaw._

In real life, that pain rises up. Smith can feel himself grinding his teeth.

_He staggers. The crowd mumbles and shifts uneasily._

_“Oh so that’s how it’s going to be?” Smith winces through a smile with no humor in it. “Go on. Hit me again, I fucking dare you.”_

_Trott does, right in the jaw again, and Smith reels back. The smile drops from his face and the kelpie spits blood onto the floor._

_“Hit me again, you fucker.” He taunts, with a voice laced with venom._

_This time he catches Trott’s punch but not the kick to his gut that doubles him over. Nor the one to his shins. His movements are slowed from the charm magic that’s soaked into his skin. His knees buckle._

_“Shut the fuck up, Smith.” Trott sing-songs with no hint of a kindness in his tone. He knocks Smith down with another swift kick, shoves his shoulders and pins him to the floor._

_Smith grapples at Trott’s arms, digging his nails into the skin, but Trott knees him harder._

_“You’re a fucking ass.” Smith seethes as Trott pins his hands._

Smith hears memory-Trott cackle. The sound is like peach pits and snake venom.

_“Don’t you ever look in mirrors?” The selkie hisses, teeth bared. “You should watch what you say lest you become what you hate.”_

_Smith can see the fury in Trott’s eyes. He barks a laugh. “All this talk of mirrors from the selkie prince. Just like them, aren’t you?”_

No- he couldn’t have- he couldn’t have said that.

But Smith knows...he did. The memory was crystal clear.

And the look on Trott’s face...the words are like the brutal crack of whip. Smith can see the pain in Trott’s eyes: the ghosts of a thousand faces flickering in a stormy sea.

How could I say that?

How could I?

_Trott’s next punch slams Smith’s head to the ground and stars burst behind his eyes as his skull cracks loudly against the pavement._

_“Going to beat the shit out of me, Trott?” Smith asks raspily as he coughs. “Going to- do to me like what they did to you?”_

_Trott punches him again._

_“How are you...any fucking different?” Smith wheezes._

_Trott’s fist connects with Smith’s face over and over. Pain sparks behind his eyelids._

It’s only a memory, but memories never forget pain. The punches hurt but he can’t help but think he deserves them.

How could I? Smith thinks in real life as the last of the memory slips away.

He wakes with a pounding headache. When he opens his eyes, his vision reels, flashing purple and making him nauseous.

"T-r." Smith stutters, coughing. The exhaustion overtakes him, and everything fades away again.

 

* * *

 

When Smith wakes up completely, it’s quiet. The whole apartment sounds empty.

He can’t speak, still dumbstruck with what he’s done, but he moves to get up.

Bolts of pain singe through the mostly healed wound in his back like lightning strikes.

Smith bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to sit upright. His muscles scream at him and his entire body protests.

_I have to get up. I have to get up. I can’t lay here when..._

Smith gets up from bed, stands, and slowly stumbles out of the room. He clings to the molding lining the doorframes to keep himself standing, and heads towards the kitchen.

 

Trott isn’t really hungry, but he picks at his food anyway. Ross had cooked, as per usual, though even Sips said he didn’t feel like eating.

He hears Ross slide the flat of his tail across the linoleum beneath him. Sips is staring at the paper with his head propped up on one hand, but Trott can tell he isn’t really reading it.

The selkie pushes his food around his plate morosely. Smith had been in and out of consciousness until he gave him a sleeping draught. When the sun had risen the morning of the second day, the fever broke, and he had slept and slept. His blood finally ran clean, back to normal burgundy.

Smith’s coherency increased each time he awoke, much to their relief. No more glazed look in his bloodshot eyes. No more inaudible mumbling.

Ross thought he would wake up soon. Trott wasn’t so sure. Sips just wanted more damn coffee- none of them had slept much at all. They had been too worried to rest peacefully, even though they rotated shifts throughout the nights.

“I remember.”

The three of them look up in surprise. Smith is standing at the end of the counter. His eyes are ringed in shadows.

“Smith?” Ross asks gently. “We thought you were sleeping. How long was the draught supposed to last, Trott?” He glances at Trott and then back to Smith.

“It should have lasted twenty four hours because I upped the dosage.” Trott stands and shuffles towards Smith. His feet ache terribly. “What are you doing up, sunshine? You need to rest.”

“I remember now.” Smith says again, swallowing thickly. “I remember everything I did.” He steps slowly around the table towards Trott, who reaches out for him.

“You’re going to strain yourself, sit down. You could have called down the hall for us to-”

“Trott...” Smith croaks, interrupting him. He sinks to his knees at Trott’s feet, and hides his face in the selkie’s hip. “ _Trott_...oh god. I _deserved_ that. I deserved every punch. Why-”

Trott shushes him and moves to his knees as well. Smith moves his face to the crook of Trott’s neck.

“How could I? How could I just-” He shakes his head, smearing tears into Trott’s skin. “Trott... _I’m so sorry_.”

The kelpie wrings his hands into Trott’s shirt and pulls him even closer.

“I was a monster...I was a demon raining blood and water.” Smith mutters into Trott’s neck. “So many people. _I drowned so many people..._ ”

Trott holds Smith tightly, as tight as he can without hurting him, and buries his face in Smith’s hair. Smith is sobbing so hard he’s shaking.

Ross scoots over next to Smith, wraps his arms around his waist, mindful of his lower back. He leans his head on Smith’s shoulder and curls his tail around his ankle.

Sips gets up from his chair to stand on the other side of Smith. He rubs a hand over Smith’s shoulders and upper back as gently as he can.

The kelpie shudders and clings tighter to the hem of Trott’s shirt. “That night- that night at the party. Trott... _I’m so sorry._ ”

“It’s alright, sunshine. It’s alright.” Trott whispers, shushing him.

“No, it’s- it’s not.” Smith protests, gasping in breaths. “After what I’d done you still- you still went to _hell_ for me. You went to hell just to fix things-” His voice cracks. “ _How could you do that for me, after what I did to you?_ ”

It’s a long few minutes before Smith’s sobbing reduces to shivery breaths.

Sips continues rubbing Smith’s upper back in circular motions.

Trott kisses Smith’s temple, and nuzzles his face into Smith’s sweat-dampened hair. His hand wipes away the tears that he can get to with Smith’s face still wedged in the crook of his neck.

“It consumed me.” Smith mumbles as he calms down. “It consumed me and I forgot everything. I almost lost myself...I almost lost _you_.”

Ross presses his face harder into Smith’s shoulder blade. The body odor is unpleasant, but Ross is thankful Smith is conscious again. But the state of him...it only makes Ross’ heart sore and the bond between them flutter with anguish.

“Every night I- I forgot who I was and what- what you meant to me.” Smith continues, stumbling over his words. “ _Fuck. Fuck, I...I can’t-_ ”

Trott caresses the side of Smith’s face. “Can’t what, sunshine? Can’t what?”

Smith takes a deep breath. “I’m _never_ letting that happen again.”

His voice shakes with the weight of the words.

“I’m _done_ with ruining the _best things in my life_.”

Smith presses his body against Trott’s. He reaches one hand up to catch Sips’ arm and another outwards to grab Ross’ shoulder.

“ _I’m done_.”

 

* * *

 

“Ross, where’s Smith at?” Trott asks as he walks into the living room, dragging a pile of gross sheets. Laundry time, now that Smith wasn’t stuck in bed.

“I saw him go outside.” The gargoyle says from where he was sitting at Sips’ feet.

Sips frowns and sets down his beer as the three look towards the window.

It was absolutely pouring out. The blue sky that had shone earlier in the day had turned into an overwashed gray.

“Did he...leave?” Trott raises an eyebrow in confusion.

Sips shakes his head, pointing to the set of keys on the coffee table. “I don’t think so.”

Trott purses his lips at the keys, nestled in his selkie skin and surrounded by empty potion bottles. He stares at the door in worry. “Oh _sunshine_...”

Sips nudges Ross away from his feet and stands up. “I’ll go get him.”

Trott removes Sips’ coat from the back of the couch and hands it to him. “I’ll go throw some towels in the dryer...”

 

The mortal king pulls on his coat and trudges out in the rain. A quick look around, and he finds the kelpie sitting next to the boot of his car. Smith is leaning up against a wheel. He’s staring at the rainwater washing into the sewer drain.

Sips walks over, stands in front of him, even, but Smith doesn’t make a move.

He clears his throat loudly. “Smiffy.”

Smith looks up at his king sullenly.

“Why don’t you come back inside. It’s cold out here and you’re soaked through.” Sips says, frowning.

“I don’t want you to look at me like I’m broken.” The kelpie replies tiredly. “And don’t even try to say I’m not.”

Sips cups Smith’s rain-washed cheeks and bends down to kiss him passionately.

Smith makes a noise of surprise. His lips are cold, but he kisses back.

“I wasn’t going to.” Sips says, breaking the kiss and moving his hands to Smith’s shoulders. “We don’t look at you because you’re broken, we look at you because we care about you. We don’t like to see you hurting.”

Smith stares up at him, squinting as the rain pelts his face and runs into his eyes.

“I get it. I do.” Sips tucks a wet lock of hair behind Smith’s ear. “Not everything is going to get magically better if you come back inside, but nothing’s going to get better if you stay out here, either.” The mortal king smiles sadly. “If I were you, I’d rather hurt where it’s warm and dry, and the cuddles are free. That’s my kind of life, Smiffy.”

“What, the cuddles cost money out in the rain?” Smith replies with a shit-eating grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Just get inside you fucking dork.” Sips hauls Smith up slowly so he won’t acerbate his wounds. He clasps Smith’s hand tightly in his and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ Smith. Gonna cuddle you ‘til you’re allergic to being alone.”

“We’re in a polyamorous foursome, so it shouldn’t take that long.”

“Stuck together forever.” Sips sighs, leading Smith along.

“Wouldn’t you get sick of me, though?” His eyes are still pained as he follows Sips up to the apartment.

“Wouldn’t you just _murder me, already?_ ” Sips responds with a look.

“...Alright. I’ll be quiet, then.” Smith smiles sadly.

“Just be here with us, that’s all I’m askin’ for.” Sips swings an arm around Smith’s shoulders and pushes open the door to their crappy but cozy flat. “At the very least, we can keep you warm.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://billskhakis-media.s3.amazonaws.com/media/catalog/product/cache/zoom/4052_nectarine.jpg  
> Trott's shirt  
> I actually own a shirt kinda like this! But not this one specifically. This one’s stupidly expensive in my opinion.
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121159886747/okiepokey-tears  
> a kelpie’s gaze
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/125812619350/7481-bleachers-i-wanna-get-better  
> Smith meeting Trott "I didn't know I was lonely 'til I saw your face."  
> Smith at the end of damned guilty deeds "I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change."
> 
> \---
> 
> Smith has a long way to go, to get better. He has to figure himself out again.  
> It's been years of him drowning people, and he really doesn't know any different.  
> There are going to be darker times, many darker times, and the struggles aren't over. For Smith and for the rest of the Garbage Court.  
> I promise you, though, that they will get better. It's going to be a long journey, but they will get better in the very end.
> 
> I know my characters are perhaps softer than other interpretations, because they're often in vulnerable situations. I think they're not dangerous enough sometimes, after writing something like this where Smith is overcome with guilt.
> 
> In this series, Smith doesn't eat the people he drowns, even though kelpie lore normally says they do. Smith doesn't sustain himself off of his kills. Instead he chases after the feeling itself, the adrenaline rush that drowning people (and having sex while doing so) provides him.
> 
> My fae have human vices. My version of the Garbage Court doesn't want to believe they're monsters. They know what they are, but they don't want to believe it. That's partly guilt, and partly the worldviews they have from their pasts. They know that what they do is bad, but they don't care. They see the violence as necessary to protect themselves.
> 
> But they're afraid that the monster is the _only_ part of them. They're afraid of losing everything they have. We only see bits of Smith's memories in the past month. But they give you an idea of how deeply he's in for it. He nearly _does_ lose himself, and that’s why he gets so wrecked.
> 
> When Sips nearly dies, the Garbage Court realize how dangerous the world is. They've always known, always been a part of it, but they were lulled into a false sense of security during the years Sips reigns as king.
> 
> They had been able to protect him before. Now, they're not so sure. Their loyalty is tested; their self-assuredness drops.
> 
> The questions in the back of their minds are: "Are we enough for each other?" and "Is there more to us than the very foundations of who we are?" and "Are we more than just monsters?"
> 
> All of those are tricky questions to answer.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for your overwhelming support. The amount of kudos I've got on this fic, and the rest of the series over two weeks, has been awesome. Thank you so much!  
> Thank you to the people who started Urban Magic Yogs, wrote, and opened it up for others to share. I never would have started writing again if it wasn’t for your amazing stories giving me the inspiration.  
> Thank you to the people who stuck around, who kept writing. Thank you to the people who had the courage to start like I did, to the new kids with their new ideas :P. This has been an amazing experience so far and I’m not done yet.
> 
> I never imagined this fic in particular would get so huge. Months ago I thought it would be around 15,000 words- it ended up over double that amount. It's been an amazing process of writing it.
> 
> And I was really worried about it for a while, too. I was worried about how the characters were going to come across, Trott in particular. I still am, to some extent.
> 
> How did the chapters go? It was harder to gauge if they were liked as well because most of the kudos were given during the first two chapters. Did posting them every other day work well or was it drawn out too much?
> 
> Please, let me know, would you? What was your favorite part? What were your favorite lines? What part hurt the most? Did you see any symbolism or foreshadowing? A lot of that was accidental at first, believe it or not.
> 
> I could talk about this fic for days- ask me what something meant, ask me about the characters, or why I picked those Shakespeare quotes or the songs I did. Seriously. I don’t have a tumblr and this is my only outlet. I’d absolutely love to send you paragraphs of comments. Just be aware that’s what you’ll get lol.


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